


The War's End

by TheBasilRathbone



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, No Major Character Death, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-07-18 14:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 59,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16120133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBasilRathbone/pseuds/TheBasilRathbone
Summary: Burdened by guilt after refusing Matthew's proposal, Mary doesn't wait until the end of the war before confessing her affair with Pamuk, she tells him while he's on leave from the war. With several more years on their side, the course of their relationship is inevitably changed. - An alternative timeline to Mary and Matthew's relationship.





	1. The Proposal

"Lady Mary Crawley." 

It's nearly automatic, the way he stands for her. It's been nearly a year since they've clapped eyes on one another, since he'd even been in England. After Molesley shut the door behind her, they are left in an uncomfortable silent, just the three of them. Matthew, Mary, and his mother. 

The war has changed all of them, it seems. With the 'home by Christmas' promise long since abandoned, it seemed keeping up pretences mattered less and less, even amongst the aristocracy. Mary's hair, while neat, was braided in a simple plait down her back, a large, woollen cardigan her only protection against the still-crisp spring air. Despite nearly a year having passed, she looked so much younger than before. 

"How did you even know I was here?" he blurts.

"Matthew!" Isobel chides, standing herself. "We're merely surprised, Mary. We weren't aware you were coming. We're so pleased to see you."

"Not very pleased, I'm sure," she replies, her fists floating up from her sides before she drops them again. She can't even look them in the eye. "I hope you'll forgive me for dropping by announced, only I know if I'd telephoned ahead you would have made yourself scarce."

Matthew clears his throat. He hasn't even had a chance to change out of uniform, yet, he's only just arrived home. The war is...the war is so much worse than he ever could have predicted. He doesn't regret enlisting, but he loathes the naive mindset of wishing to get away from Downton. As if the war would be a reprieve from awkwardness with the Crawleys. What a fool he had been. "I wouldn't have-"

"There's no need to pretend," she cuts in. "It's not as though you hadn't a good reason. I just...need to speak with you. I know you're only here for a few days and are here to visit your mother. I won't use up too much of your time."

"I don't think-"

"I might check to see how Mrs. Bird is doing with dinner preparations," Isobel says quickly, and it's all he do not to rush out the door ahead of her. The whole world seemed to conspire to push them together. "Mary, Dear, always a pleasure." 

The door snapping shut is the only noise that follows for some time, beyond the tick of the clock behind her. He waits, he owes her no words after all, but it all seems to stretch on endlessly and it isn't long before it's suddenly too much to bear. 

"Look, if you have something to say-"

"I do," she insists, then falls silent again, her gaze dropping to the floor once more. Time passes. "I owe you an explanation, Matthew, I'm just trying to work up the nerve. I've written to you. So many times. And once I'm done I lose my nerve and throw the letters into the fireplace. You must believe me."

A thousand cruel words run through his mind at once, far faster than he could hope to say them. He wants to sneer at her, remark in surprise that she could write so prolifically and yet could not have spared him a simple 'yes' or 'no' before the war. 

"If it could be sent in a letter it's a wonder why you took the trouble of having someone report my presence and then come all the way out here yourself," is all he can manage. 

"I'm not a good enough liar, Matthew, as I've said before. I needed you to know I am in earnest when I tell you what I'm about to say."

The ticking clock seems to echo off of the walls of the house. Sound carries. 

"Perhaps we should go for a walk."

* * *

For a lady whose upbringing included the art of keeping up conversation even with the dullest of companions, Mary remained suspiciously silent. They'd nearly lapped the grounds before she even opened her mouth to speak, though it was likely sensing his frustration and annoyance that prompted her. 

"I feel that I owe you an explanation. I know things can never go back to the way they were between us, but I...well, it's a terrible burden, keeping it all in."

Matthew huffs. "I don't feel any explanation is necessary. With another Crawley on the way you were unsure about me, and then when I was once again the heir you had suddenly made up your mind."

"It isn't as simple as that."

"So you keep saying," he snaps, burying his hands into the pockets of his overcoat in a rather ungentlemanly fashion. "Any explanation worth its salt would have been a welcome change to the silence you inflicted on me."

"I knew you would despise me if I told you," she gulps. "I couldn't bear it. Granny, Aunt Rosamund, Mama...I had all of these voices pushing me to answer and I was drowning in a sea of it all."

"They all know this 'explanation?'" he asks sharply. "Do they  _despise_ you?"

"They're dreadfully disappointed in me. Please, Matthew," she says shakily, stopping short. She looks as though she might speak, but instead wraps her arms around herself. It's meant to look like she's crossing her arms, he thinks, but instead she seems to cling to herself. "Please. This isn't some sorry attempt to win you back. Now would you just shut up before I lose the nerve, I beg you."

He knows her well enough to be sure that a crack in Mary's cool composure, however slight, meant a torrent of emotions were happening beneath the surface. "Alright."

She works her jaw again before finding the words. "Long before you proposed, before we were even remotely serious about one another...we had a guest. That stayed at Downton. Evelyn Napier, do you remember?"

He racks his brain. "The man that brought the Turkish diplomat, the one who died?"

Mary nods, looking pinched and pale. "Yes, that's the one. Kemal Pamuk. His heart gave out in the middle of the night."

"Right," Matthew replies, watching her. "I remember. Go on."

She pauses again. "Well, he was found in his bed the next morning. But he didn't...he didn't die there."

The floodgates open. She tells him the whole affair, from him slipping unseen into her bedroom in the midst of night, seducing her, crying out on top of her and collapsing. She tells him of the weight of him, of her having to squirm her way out from underneath his corpse, of pacing the floor in a panic. Of waking Anna, waking Cousin Cora, of dragging his lifeless body back into his bedroom as the sun rose before returning to her own, shattered and empty. Of retching and shaking on the floor beside her bed, emptying the contents of her stomach into the bowl, and then dressing and having to join the party downstairs. 

It was his turn to be silent. The picture she has painted is so vivid, so visceral he can almost feel the suffocating panic clawing at his throat. Oh, God. 

"Please," she croaks. "Say something. Even if it's only good-bye."

He might have laughed, if he could make any sound at all. The air seems to be taken from his lungs. Whatever he expected, it wasn't this. "Did you love him?" he finally manages, eyes fixated on the grounds before him.

"You mustn't try to-"

"-because if it was love-"

"How could it be love? I didn't know him!"

"Then why would you-"

"-it was lust, Matthew!" she cries in exasperation. "Or a...a need for excitement or something in him that I...I...oh, God, what difference does it make now?"

He grapples for words yet again. Their whole relationship seemed to be a power struggle, who could out-wit or out-smart the other. Who could gain the upper hand. Now they were both cut off at the knees, just trying to keep their wits at all. 

"And this...this played in a part in your refusal of me?"

"Honestly, Matthew," she cries, trying to pass it off as a derisive laugh despite the tears in her eyes. "I was the Tess of the d'Ubervilles to your Angel Clare. I had fallen. I was impure!"

"Don't joke," he commands, finally turning to face her. "Don't make it...little. Not when I'm trying to understand."

She gulps in air. The tip of her nose has turned red and she's pulled the sleeves of her woollen cardigan over her knuckles. She looks so terribly small. "Thank you for that," she says at last. "The fact of the matter is that I either hid from you the truth about my virtue and prayed that if you ever found out you wouldn't despise me for my deception, or confess the whole thing beforehand and risk you retracting your proposal with disgust. I couldn't bear it."

"It didn't seem to dampen your enthusiasm when I was once again the heir and you wanted me again."

She exhales, hands clasping at her own arms so tightly her fingertips have turned white. "I never thought I could be happy again, after Pamuk. I was ruined in every conceivable way. I felt that I was...cursed. I didn't know it was possible to feel such despair. And then you were there, you wanted me, and I...found myself falling in love with you. And you proposed, Matthew, and I...I was on the verge of so much happiness, I was about to have everything I ever wanted, but Pamuk was still hanging above me like Damocles' sword, ready to drop at any moment. And then Mama was pregnant and once again I was no longer on solid ground. It just felt like whatever chance I had was already slipping away."

"I wasn't solid ground?" he asks, "or was it my fortune that wasn't certain enough for you?"

"It was my life," she chokes out. "What was I to do if I married you and you discovered the truth? What if you turned your back on me? You'd have every right. At least if my shame was known to the world, at home I could still be Lady Mary Crawley of Downton Abbey. I know how to be _that,_ however disgraced. But to be the wife of a solicitor in a strange city, without friends, without my family, with my husband disgusted by my deception? It was too much to even think about. I may play the part of the solitary creature but I couldn't stand it. It wasn't snobbishness that made me shy away from you, it was cowardice. If losing you was inevitable, I could at least be the harlot in my own home. Have some comfort and security."

He can barely stand the sight of her. His whole body feels as if it might burst. "And after? After the baby-"

"After Mama lost the baby and you were once again the heir I...felt less like I was standing in quicksand. Like I might once again have some comfort in my inevitable misery, as well perhaps a few happy years before you hated me. Please. However much you despise me for my promiscuity, please believe that my reluctance to accept you was because I was trying to  _avoid_ playing with your feelings. Had I cared any less for you it would have been far easier to give you an answer. I would never-"

To his horror, she brings her hands up to her face, hiding her eyes as she begins to quietly weep. 

"M...Matthew, I was in agony!"

He can stand it no more. He reaches for her, pulling her in by her elbow and clasping her to his chest as she sobs. His own eyes sting as he clings to her, resting his cheek against her hair. She has always been so composed, so cool and collected even under the greatest pressure. To have her come apart in his arms was alarming. If she truly was acting, Matthew thinks, she would never let herself be seen in this state. 

"You were wrong," he murmurs finally, hands sliding down trace the edge of her jaw. "About one thing, at least."

She sniffles, wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. "Only one? And what is that?"

"I never would...I never _could_ despise you."

* * *

They find a bench, somehow, set back against the trees. Public enough that they don't feel the weight of being entirely alone, but out of the way to have some privacy. Mary's tears had since died out, though she sat beside him in silence, her feet tucked up under her, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Perhaps it wasn't fair to you," she says at last. "To tell you all of this before you go back to the front. I don't expect anything from you, I do hope you know that. I just couldn't bear the thought of you out there somewhere, thinking the worst of me. I don't know why I preferred you thinking me unvirtuous to thinking me a money-hungry snob, it seems so foolish now."

"Do you regret telling me?" he asks her, resting his hand over top of her own. 

"No," she confesses. "Not if it at least means we can part having cleared the air. I do hope you can at least entertain the thought of us being friends. Surely if an upper-class man refuses unvirtuous friends he'd have no friends at all."

He laughs at that. At least her bravado has begun to return. "I must confess, I wish you would have told me before."

"Whether you believed me or thought I was a liar, the fact remains that I am made different by it. Once I told you the truth you would never see me the same way again. I wanted to remain the woman you thought I was for as long as I could keep the charade. But for fear of doing the wrong thing I did nothing at all, and that turned out to be just as wrong as saying it outright."

"I've never known you to be so delicate with your words," he replies. 

"On the contrary, whether I insult or flatter, I usually select my words carefully. Only this time I cared deeply about what your reaction would be. What the world would think of me, if it all got out. I wish desperately to be more like Sybil, she really doesn't care what people think. I'm afraid I do."

"You shouldn't," he assures. "I know I've never truly dealt much with the society gossips, but surely you cannot plan on living your whole life as a shadow on the chance that they might catch wind of what happened."

Mary sighs, straightening up in her seat and turning to face him. "But they did, Matthew. Rumours were already swirling. It didn't feel like some distant gossip at the time, my ruin felt...inevitable. It was like I was tied to the tracks and it was only a matter of time before I was hit."

"Well, with the war on, they've far more important things to talk about, I'll wager."

"They certainly do," Mary agreed. "But it was too late for us at any rate. The only way to redeem myself to you in any way was to condemn myself to be a harlot in your eyes, that's the terrible irony of it all."

"Do you think me so harsh a critic?" he asks, shaking his head. "Or worse yet, so utterly virtuous that I have any right to cast judgement?"

"Everyone else has. What kind of relationship could I hope for with you now? To have the late Mr. Pamuk resurrected with every argument?"

"I don't believe that to be the case." 

Mary meets his gaze, and his heart stutters. "You mean you've forgiven me?"

"No. I haven't forgiven you." He doesn't wait long enough for her downcast look to linger. "I haven't forgiven you because I don't believe you need my forgiveness. I could rail and curse at you for not telling me sooner, but I cannot honestly say in good faith what my reaction would have been. But now...very little about the world makes sense to me now. The war has changed everything. A soldier certainly knows what it means to feel hopeless, to long for comfort and pleasure wherever he can find it."

"I'm not a soldier," she says, her hand straying to clutch at his arm. 

"You're not a soldier," he agrees. "But you are human. And if a world of rule and order and morality has led us to this...unspeakable war..."

When he trails off, Mary squeezes his arm to draw his attention once again. "Is it unthinkable?" she asks. "What you've gone through? You must think me a silly fool for carrying on about reputation and gossip when you are surrounded by so much fear and death."

"I don't think you a fool," he assures, resting his hand over hers. "I merely find it...displacing. I spend all of my time at the front longing for the comforts of home. And then when I am home I find myself guilty for having them."

"For having them when there's still a war going on," she agrees. "I think I must feel something similar. We just go on with our lives as though men aren't out there dying every day. Who cares if a footman brings out the white wine glasses while we're serving red, how could any of it matter? I went down to the servant's hall the other morning seeking Mrs. Patmore and saw William ironing the paper. It made me want to scream."

"Precisely," he huffs, feeling as though her hand on his arm is the only thing keeping him tethered as the memories of the war swirl. "I know I was critical of this lifestyle when I first arrived, and I don't mean to offend. But after laying in the mud and eating nothing but tinned stew and falling asleep to the sounds of gunfire..." 

"Matthew," she breathes, laying her head against his shoulder, still clutching his sleeve. "I'm sorry."

"You've nothing to be sorry for," he replies. He means it. 

* * *

His mother makes inquiries when he returns to the house, but when he doesn't readily share she doesn't pry. He's grateful. Mary's words had torn him apart once again, but he felt somewhat healed by them. And then, of course, the inevitable guilt follows from feeling relief that her motivations were not as cold and calculating as he had once thought.

He doesn't see her again, and she doesn't seek him out. He's somewhat relieved to be left alone to process the storm of new information he had received, but when the car pulls away from Crawley House and he's faced with going back to the war, he realizes that he may have missed a chance to say good-bye, one last time. He debates asking the driver to turn back, to say his farewells at the main house, but in his indecision says nothing. Perhaps it was better to end with this closure than to risk opening up more wounds. Or rouse them all out of bed at this hour just to leave again a few minutes later. 

But when he arrives at the train station and sees her on the platform, he feels nothing but relief. 

She looks more like the Mary of old than she had the other day, primly dressed in a red day coat and matching hat, her hair neatly tucked beneath the brim. Instead of a pinched look, she smiles warmly at him, and approaches with a bounce in her step. Perhaps her words had done some healing on more than just him. 

"Don't worry," she soothes. "I'm not here to cause any awkwardness."

"You must have been up before the servants!"

"They were rather surprised to see me," she agreed. "But I wanted to give you this." With another soft smile, she reached into her handbag, producing a small, felted dog, worn from care and love. "It's my lucky charm. I've had it always. So you must...promise to bring it back without a scratch."

He rubs his gloved thumb over its floppy ear. He meets her gaze, taking her in. She'd been through her own kind of hell, that much was clear. "Won't you need it?"

"Not as much as you. Just...come back. Safe and sound." She releases a shaky breath. "I'm terribly sorry. If I've...caused you any distress-"

"Of course not. You send me off to war a happy man. I can't express how very glad I am that we made up when we had the chance." He watches as she colours and ducks her head. "I mean it."

 

"Could I write to you?" she blurts, and then, hurrying to cover her folly, "I know nothing I can say can make it any easier for you, but I would so like to hear from you. When you have the time. The whole family must think me a fool, loitering about whenever anyone receives a letter with your handwriting on the envelope. So...would you be offended if I wrote?"

"I would be offended if you didn't," he says lightly, though the humour is forced. It's all so formal, so polite, and none of it what he really wanted to say. "Mary," he says at last, though he feels his nerve failing. He busies himself by tucking the little plush dog into his pocket. "Would you...would you promise to look after my mother? If something should happen."

"Nothing will happen," she promises him. 

"But if-"

"It won't," she says firmly. "But of course I will." 

He nods stiffly. "I suppose I should-"

"Yes. I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting. Good-bye, then." She pauses, just a moment, before darting forward to press a kiss against his cheek. The feel of her lips, the scent of her hair, it's enough to make his knees shake. As she pulls away, he grabs her elbow to stop her. Their eyes meet for just a moment, and then they're kissing, his case and her handbag dropped onto the station floor. He feels her hands take fistfuls of his lapels, and he'd be damned if anyone could pull him away now. The train could leave him behind, for all he cared.

They break apart at last, heads bent together, breathless. "I love you, Matthew," she says finally. "I have. For so long."

"Since you walked in on me telling my mother that your father would try to pawn off his daughters on me?"

She laughs tearily. "Perhaps not that long ago. But it worked, didn't it?"

"Despite both of our derision." 

"But what about our past, Matthew? Lord knows we carry more luggage than the porters at King's Cross. My hesitancy to accept you, and Mr. Pamuk..."

"I understand it, now. The war has wiped out my pride and fear and stubbornness. Mary, I can't promise you much, certainly not a long life with me. I can't promise that I'll even live to see you again, but for the time I have left, be it forty minutes or forty years, I want to live it together. As much as we can."

"Matthew, I can't...I need you to be sure. I can't bear to have you take me there again if you might change your mind," she pleads, hands still clutching the lapels of his jacket. 

"I won't. I am sure," he vows. "I know it isn't fair, to ask you to tie yourself to a man who is never around, to a man who might die any second..."

"I am already tied to you, Matthew Crawley," she promises. "I couldn't be unbound, even if I wanted to. I know you may not trust it yet, but I am yours, if you want me."

"I do," Matthew breathes, gathering her in for an embrace, lifting her feet right off of the pavement as she throws her arms around his neck. "I do trust you, I do want you. I know we'll have to wait. Maybe even until the war's end, but-"

"I'll wait forever."

"Marry me."

The whistle blows, a last-call for passengers to board. The thought of leaving her now, after this...

"God, yes. Even if you renounced Downton and moved back to Manchester, yes. I would be terribly upset with you and probably never speak to you again, but I would still marry you." The dry joke is lessened by her grin. 

"What a quiet life we would lead. And if your mother has another child and I'm again forced out?"

"Then I could hardly blame you. In such a case, only ten, fifteen years at most before I spoke to you again."

He laughs, kissing her again, and again, before reluctantly picking up his luggage and tearing himself away. He finds the nearest seat that he can and she follows him, reaching up to grasp his hand through the open window. The whistle blows once more, and then the train lurches into motion. He feels as though his heart might burst. 

She walks along the pavement beside him, her steps increasing as the train picks up speed.

"Oh God, Mary, please. Don't change your mind."

"Don't change your mind," she repeats back to him, and then he forges ahead, leaving her behind on the platform with her hand outstretched after him. 

 


	2. The Concert

"Lady Mary Crawley."

Isobel nods in greeting as Mary enters, then indicates for her to sit in the seat across from her armchair. There's no need for small talk, they both know the reason Isobel has requested her presence. Alone. 

Molesley pours the tea at an excruciatingly slow pace, asking if he can be of any more service before she dismisses him. She only speaks when she hears the door click shut after him. 

"I suspect you are well aware of my reason for calling you here," Isobel says bluntly. She never has been good at beating around the bush. Violet would say it was a terribly middle-class habit of hers. "I've received a letter from Matthew."

"We're engaged," Mary says simply, bringing the tea cup to her lips. "When he last visited. I hope you don't mind my not telling you sooner, I thought it best the news come from your son."

"He is my son," Isobel agrees. "Which is why I am rather uncomfortable at the idea of being the last to know. I dined at the house three days ago, was everyone determined to conceal it from me?"

"On the contrary, I've told no one. You're the very first to know, beyond Matthew and myself. And perhaps the attendant on the train platform where it happened."

She says it so coolly, so calmly, and it only adds to Isobel's bewilderment. She had been determined to hear Mary's explanation, but it was only under the pretence of fairness. Isobel had quite certainly already made up her mind about what had gone on, but now her anger had evaporated. 

"Why on earth would you conceal it?"

"Because you were the only one who would find any objection in the match. My family certainly won't. Perhaps Edith, though only because she feeds off of misery."

"And you think Matthew would agree to break off the engagement if I disapproved?"

Mary pauses. "No, perhaps not." Isobel had to agree. It didn't seem likely for him to be swayed once he had already proposed. "But we both thought it better to allow you some time to...adjust to the idea. If you truly disapproved, it would be an unpleasant surprise for you when it was all announced."

"You must know why I hesitate to give him my blessing."

She nods, matter-of-fact. "Because I've made myself out to be a grubby little gold-digger who wants Matthew for his new inheritance and nothing more."

Isobel grimaces. "That's rather harsh, Mary. You must know that my opinion is not quite so severe."

"But I have got the idea, haven't I? You want your son to marry for love, and you feel that I have tricked him into proposing by being false in order to become the future Countess of Grantham."

Not for the first time, Isobel thinks of how terribly young Mary looks. She speaks in a shocking manner and maintains her cool facade to appear collected and uncaring, but Isobel is aware of how terribly self-conscious the young woman must be. Mary speaks harshly to rob others of the chance of saying what cruel things she believes them to be thinking of her. Isobel worries for Matthew's sake, as well, how Mary retreats into her own grandness and aloofness to protect herself. Marriage isn't about maintaining one's sense of dignity.

"You wouldn't accept him without his inheritance. You  _didn't_ accept him when his inheritance was in question. If he's quite determined to marry you, then of course I will hold no objections. But I do have concerns, yes. I'm afraid I can't lie about that."

"I never expected you to," Mary replies, her voice soft. She sets her cup down, and despite having frequently lifted it to her lips, she hasn't swallowed any. "If it is any consolation, Matthew had his doubts, as well. And I feel that I owe you...I do owe you the same explanation I gave him. It is not an excuse, I assure you, I will not come across in a more favourable light. But it is an explanation.

She takes a long breath and then begins. Isobel suspected that Mary would come with a defence, but this was certainly not what she had anticipated. The whole dalliance is laid before her, or at least Isobel believes it is. What Mary has admitted is so stunning that Isobel can't fathom what could be so much worse as to be concealed. Mr. Pamuk, his uninvited visitation to her bedroom, carrying the man's corpse through the halls of the great house...

"And Matthew knows about this? Everything you've told me?"

"In even greater detail than you do," Mary promises. "When he first proposed before the war, I was deciding between hiding it from Matthew until after we married or telling him everything and risk him walk away in disgust. And then when Mama...when there might have been another heir, and with my discovery seemingly inevitable with rumours already beginning to swirl in London...If I married Matthew and he turned his back on me, I would have rather been an object of disgust in my own home, rather than a strange city with no family or friends. I could have refused him, probably should have, but I was...selfish. I loved him so terribly much, I wanted to be his wife."

Isobel can only sit stock-still as she listens.

Mary continues. "You have plenty of reasons to disapprove of our match, Cousin Isobel. I am a ruined woman, I am selfish. I was willing to marry Matthew despite the possibility of dragging him down with me into scandal. But I do love him. So very much. I would rather you think me unsuitable for the faults that are truly mine and not any misunderstandings. Though perhaps you think even more ill of me now."

"And this...new information. It's what led him to renew his affections to you?"

Mary nods. "Yes. I feared he would never speak to me again if didn't tell him the truth. Even if he thought very ill of me, at least he wouldn't be...angry at me any longer. It wasn't an attempt to win back his favour or seduce him. That he forgave me and loved me still..." Despite the extraordinary tale she has shared, Mary has managed to remain startlingly composed, though not without emotion. She has told this story before, Isobel thinks, she's had practice. She's told it to Matthew. 

At Isobel's continued silence, Mary is quick to speak. "I know it would be naive of me to ask for your blessing after what I have just confessed. You have every right to be concerned."

Isobel finally compels herself to speak. "I have to wonder if men must worry quite so much about their own mistakes when they marry," she says at last, feeling quite firm in her conviction. "I cannot lie, Mary, and say that I approve of your actions. But you are not the first young person to be seduced into a poor decision, and I am not of the mind that the cost of a youthly mistake is a lifetime of misery. If the war has taught us anything, surely it's to seek happiness wherever one can find it."

Mary's stiff, proper posture relaxes. It's a minute change, and she still holds herself like an aristocrat, but Isobel can _see_ her fears subside. Perhaps she shouldn't be, but she is quite pleased that her own opinion held such weight with Mary. 

"I hope I have given you some relief."

Mary smiles. "You have. I was expecting far more of a scolding than that."

"You were quite brave in telling me," Isobel replies. "And I am very grateful that you did. You were right to think that I would be concerned. He's my son, I want him to be well."

"I don't know that I am what's best for him," Mary replies. "But I want him to be as happy as you do. And I know a rift with you would hurt him deeply. I would hate to think that he was...afraid, or ashamed, to tell you of our engagement."

"I don't think he was either," Isobel assured her. "I know there is a war, and I know that no future is guaranteed, but I do wish you happiness, Mary. And God-willing, happiness together."

* * *

"Mary, Darling!" Matthew greets, leaning in to press a chaste kiss against her cheek. It's not nearly enough, not for their first contact since becoming engaged, but they were in public after all. "Hello."

"Sorry I'm late. Papa was all up in arms about something or another, I had to smooth ruffled feathers. I missed the train and had to catch the later one."

"I'm just glad you've made it at all." Matthew takes a champagne glass from a passing servant and hands it to her before turning back to the pair he was speaking with before her arrival. Mary's eyes linger on him a moment longer. He's thinner, tanned from all the time outside, but so terribly handsome in his uniform. He looked as prim as he always did, his hair combed and pomaded into place, but Mary could sense an unusual uneasiness in him.

She wished that they were alone at Downton so she could ask after him instead of stuck in this military soiree in London. 

"Mary, this is Mr. Reginald Swire, a fellow solicitor, and his daughter Lavinia. Mr. Swire, Miss Swire, may I present my fianceé, Lady Mary Crawley." 

Reginald Swire is a stout, rather gruff-looking man, though he smiles warmly and shakes her hand. Lavinia is a slight thing, with bright red hair and a shy smile. She blushes when she greets Mary, eyes glancing quickly back to Matthew for just a moment. Mary cann't blame her for being taken with him, she is quite taken herself. 

"Another solicitor? I hope I've come after all the shop-talk is already concluded," she teases, laying a hand playfully on Matthew's forearm. Perhaps she might be a  _tiny_ bit jealous of Lavinia's attraction after all. 

"Not to worry. We'll try not to bore you with legal talk," Matthew replies with a smile, relaxing a bit. She's glad to see it. 

"Thank goodness Lavinia is here, we can keep one another entertained," she responds, smiling at the other young woman. 

"If only you'd been here sooner to save me," Lavinia jokes. "I can't say that I'm uninterested, but even I have my limits."

Despite being a rather dull evening, Mary is quite content to hang onto Matthew's arm and be led through the dining hall to be introduced to a flurry of officers. 

"You're quite the hit," Matthew informs her when they have a brief, blessed moment alone. "A beautiful, well-dressed woman in their presence? No one is nearly as eager to speak with me when you're not around."

"If putting on an evening gown and gloves is enough to raise morale, I should dress like this all the time," she replies with a smile.

"It's certainly enough to raise mine." 

She sends him a pointed look. "Well, I know someone who likely isn't pleased to see me. Miss Swire."

"Lavinia? Why ever not? She's shy, perhaps, but she's very sweet."

"And very taken with you," Mary informs him. "You must have noticed. Though I can't say that I blame her."

Matthew shoots her a scolding look, though the fine blush on his cheeks tells her that he has, in fact, noticed. "I'm a soldier, an acquaintance of her father, and she's very hopeful for the outcome of the war, nothing more. She's a sweet girl."

"So you keep saying. I do hope 'sweet' isn't your type, or I shall be very jealous."

"Why? You're rather sweet, too."

"Not _very_ sweet," she muses, pleased with his flirting. "But I will take your compliment, however inaccurate."

"I'm so pleased that you're here, Mary, I know this isn't exactly how you would choose to spend an evening."

"I'm with you. It's exactly how I'd wish to spend an evening. Though I would rather we had more privacy."

He smiles warmly at her, and she wants so badly to kiss him. They've written countless letters, she's sent him a photograph to keep with him at the front, but it isn't the same. Not even close. 

"Is everything resolved with your father? I hope it wasn't anything too terrible."

"Oh, you know Papa," she replies, waving her hand dismissively. "Riled up about nothing important. I'm far more concerned about you. How are you, Matthew? Really."

He exhales slowly, and it ages him instantaneously. "Tired. A bit rattled. But glad to at least have two nights' leave."

"I wish you could have had enough time to come up Yorkshire. Everyone is longing to see you."

"I long to see them. They're all well?"

"As well as can be expected, given the war and your absence. Honestly, Carson seems to be suffering the most. Losing the footman is treated like a grand tragedy."

That makes him laugh, as she'd hoped it would. More and more these days, her jokes fall flat, and she's rewarded with his tight smile. But the wine and the food and the company have seemingly brightened his spirits, and for that she's glad. 

"I love you so terribly much, you know." And he pulls her in, kissing her forehead in the middle of the busy room. Her heart stutters. 

"Not as much as I love you. I don't think it's possible."

* * *

Mary is selfish, and she knows it. She had gone to stay for a short break with Aunt Rosamund, where she had been informed of Matthew's unexpected leave. Isobel had been the one to let her know, telephoning to say that she would be travelling down to London herself to visit. Mary had quickly confirmed with her aunt and arranged for Isobel to stay with them, and before the day was over the three of them were dining out together. 

Isobel had expressed her horror at reading the reports of the Somme battle as they unfolded, turning from optimistic to unfathomably brutal. Mary herself had been unable to bear reading them at all. 

Matthew looked glassy-eyed and absent-minded, and Mary wished desperately that she was more warm and nurturing that she might know just what to do to comfort him. Perhaps it was why, when the topic of the concert Downton was throwing to raise funds for the war effort came up, she didn't immediately protest when Matthew expressed his desire to attend. 

"I think you are overestimating what sort of an evening it will be," she warns instead. 

"You should be resting," Isobel agrees. "A dinner out is one thing, but an evening of getting all dressed up and parading about is quite another." 

"Mother," Matthew scolds, but Mary holds up a hand to stop any attempts for him to apologize on her behalf. 

"I'm afraid that I agree with Cousin Isobel," she insists. "Your leave is a time for you to rest and recover."

But Matthew wouldn't hear it. He declared himself set on going up to Yorkshire, reminding his mother and Mary that he hadn't seen the Crawleys since before Mary had informed them of their engagement. Mary wondered instead if he was just desperate to be too busy to dwell on the events of the war. 

And so they all take the train up together, Branson dropping Matthew and Isobel at Crawley house to prepare for the concert before driving Mary back to the main house. 

The screech of strings as the musicians prepare their instruments is already giving her a headache, but the annoyance comes with the guilt of being so blasé. Her own fiancé is a soldier, for God's sake, should she not be supporting the war effort in any way she can? 

She takes extra care to prepare for the night, though out of guilt for her disrespectful thoughts or out of a desire to make this evening perfect for Matthew she isn't sure. Likely both. 

Mary makes the rounds as guests begin to appear, avoiding Edith and her sour mood. Unfortunately, it means that she is distracted when Matthew and Isobel make their appearance, and her father is able to dash ahead to greet them first, and eagerly. 

"My dear fellow," she can hear him say as they shake hands. "Welcome back. It's so very good to see you."

"Papa's just relieved that you've finally taken his near-spinster daughter off the market," Mary says, coming up behind them and smiling softly in greeting. 

"I am pleased to see him alive and well whatever the circumstances," Robert defends. "I think of you like a son, whether or not it's official. Though I have to say, I am very, very pleased that it will be official."

"That's very kind, Sir," Matthew replies, looking a bit taken aback by Robert's abundance of warmth. "And I'm rather pleased myself."

Cora is next, then Sybil, expressing how pleased they are that Matthew and Mary have managed to work things out. Edith tells Matthew how relieved she is that he is well, though Mary is left rolling her eyes when Edith simply walks away without offering any congratulations on the engagement. Honestly. 

When she turns back, Matthew looks distracted, staring at the musicians though his eyes don't settle on anything in particular. 

"I do so love you in this uniform," she tells him, unnecessarily straightening the lapels of his coat, just to touch him. 

"Then what will you do when the war is over?" he asks with a tight smile. He has that same glazed expression that she has come to dread. Like he's trying to appear normal when there's a storm going on in his head. 

"Darling, you can wear tweed to every white-tie dinner party until the end of time and I won't say a thing if it means the war is over and I have you back safe and sound."

That seems to bring him out of himself. His eyes focus and he smiles again, small but genuine. "Perhaps I'll hold you to that."

"I wish you would just go home and rest."

"I'm fine," he insists, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. It's a tender move, but one that doesn't dismiss all of Mary's concerns. "I want to be here."

* * *

Mary isn't sure what all the fuss is about, really. The musicians are fine, the evening is sufficiently dull, and once the audience goes on their way the rest of them make their way to the dining room for supper. 

But Matthew seems pleased, and his spirits are brightened considerably. So she bites her tongue from making any unflattering comments that might dampen his mood. 

Edith apparently has decided to take over in that particular regard. "So why have you not gotten married, yet?" she asks loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. "It's been nearly two years."

Mary sets down her cutlery with a sigh. "Honestly, Edith, it's none of your business."

Matthew, always kinder, takes over. "We have tried to make arrangements. But my leaves are so unpredictable that it doesn't make much sense to put the effort into planning the society affair expected of an Earl's daughter when I might not even be able to make it home."

"Throwing a lavish event when we're supposed to be cutting back would be in poor taste," Mary agrees, throwing a pointed glance at Edith. "And even a small, quiet wedding requires a few weeks' planning for the Archbishop to attend. As Matthew said, we aren't able to plan that far in advance."

That shuts her up, Mary is pleased to see, though the energy in the room seems to wane, everyone absorbed in their thoughts about the war and its unpredictability.

Isobel, who Mary has begun to appreciate more and more since the engagement, breaks the silence. "Well, after it's all over and Matthew has returned home for good, we'll have a wedding as yet another excuse to celebrate. What a pleasant thought."

When the meal has ended and the evening draws to a close, Mary lingers at Matthew's side as he slowly pulls on his overcoat, neither one of them seemingly eager to leave. 

"Will you stay in the village until you have to return?"

"I have the day tomorrow. I take the six o'clock train on Thursday."

"And then you'll be in France," she finishes, reaching out to smooth down the lapels of his coat. She has somehow picked up that habit, she isn't sure when. It's the only way she can ground herself and stop from throwing herself at him. Begging him to stay. 

"Most likely," he sighs, straightening his cuffs. "I am sorry. This must be so difficult for you."

"Difficult? I'm not the one at the front," she replies. 

"I know. And I am. And that means that everyone asks me how I am and worries about me. But if I had to sit at home every day without you and wonder every minute if you were hurt, or even still alive...I'd go mad, Mary. You're stronger than I am."

"Don't be silly," she says, but wants to burst into tears. She sometimes feels that she is going mad. She glances down the entryway, where Isobel is climbing into the back of the car and Mama and Papa are distracted. She rises onto her toes to kiss him, just briefly. 

Both a little teary-eyed, Mary wants desperately to lift their spirits before she can't maintain her composure at all. "Soon we'll be in charge of Downton, running the estate, raising our children. All of this will seem a distant memory. That's what I focus on."

"Not very soon. Cousin Robert will be in charge for many years," he says, staring off down the entryway as he pulls on his cap. “You'll be a lawyer's wife far longer than you'll be a countess. That is, if I get through the war in one piece."

"Of course you will," she insists, resting a hand on his cheek, trying to pull him back. "Don't even think like that."

He closes his eyes for a moment, moving his hand up to rest over hers. "You will write?"

"I'll write so many letters your messengers will be angry with you for taking up so much of their time."

He nods. "Give Sybil my best, and that I hope she gets along well at her nursing course."

"I will. But you can catch up with her yourself on your next leave. Because you will be back."

"I hope you don't regret it," he says after a long moment. "Agreeing to marry me under these circumstances."

She smiles, trying to disguise her tears. "Darling, I would be in the agony of waiting and wondering and praying for your safety whether or not we are engaged. At least when you're home again I get to kiss you. I don't regret a thing."

He wants to say more, Mary's sure of it, but before he can work past the emotion Isobel is calling out for him, hurrying him along. 

"Go," Mary says at last. "I'll see you tomorrow for dinner. And I'll see you off at the train station."

With a slight smile, he kisses her cheek again and then is off, striding out the door. She tries not to think that this might be one of the last times she sees him.  


	3. Missing

The past weeks have been a flurry of activity. Mary usually drones on in her letters to Matthew, trying to find something interesting to say but knowing there isn't much. It's a constant balancing act to try and provide him with the comforting news of home without making it sound so sweet and calm that he resents them all for their lack of activity. She isn't sure she ever does it properly. 

But that came to a sudden halt the moment Downton had opened its doors to a military convalescent home. Though she'd never admit it to anyone, Mary is relieved. After nearly three years of war, she finally feels like they are doing something useful. Selling pamphlets and raising funds are all well and good, but this is tactile. Immediate. She can see the difference it makes happening before her very eyes. 

 _It just felt wrong for our lives to chug along as if the war were only happening to other people,_ Anna had said one night while she was fixing Mary's hair. And Mary had to agree. 

Sybil has returned from her nursing course a different woman. She's determined, disciplined, and hard-working. Mary isn't she how much help she herself can be, but its better than nothing. She can pour water and fetch tea and do what the nurses tell her to. 

It's so much worse than she ever could have imagined. 

Sybil takes it all in stride, but when the bus rolls up to the doors, Mary has to pause. The missing limbs and the bandaged eyes and the line of canes and wheelchairs evoke horror in her. Horror for what these young men have gone through. 

What Matthew continues to go through at the front. 

Blessedly, he's written to her saying that he has been selected to tour around England with his general, which puts him out of the line of fire. But she knows he'll go back eventually. He must go back. And God knows what will happen there.

And so she busies herself as the injured officers file in, helping direct them to their beds, carrying trays of water glasses about, generally trying to be useful, or at least not in the way. Isobel has certainly taken this authoritative role to heart, and Mary can already predict the butting of heads between her and Granny. Or Mama. Or the staff...

"I hadn't cast you as Florence Nightingale."

She drops the glass she was holding, narrowly avoiding breaking it she's sure, and spins to the sound of his voice. 

"Matthew!" she cries, immediately grabbing for his arm, barely stopping herself from leaping into his arms. He's here, solid, real. Right in front of her. "What on earth are you doing here? I know I can't ask _what_ you're doing..."

"My general was aware I lived up here and gave me a few hours off. Tomorrow we start on the camps of the northern counties."

"So we'll see something of you, if you'll be close by?"

"I hope my general might even come here. It's exactly the sort of thing people like to read about," he says, glancing around at the cots lined up along the floor. 

Mary opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted as Isobel's voice rises over the fray. "Sybil?" she commands. "Come, Edith can do that."

Mary turns back to Matthew, and they share an amused smile before Mary turns back to her tray, eager to avoid a scolding herself.

"Dear Mother," Matthew muses. "She does love a bit of authority. I suppose she's driving Cousin Cora mad?"

Mary smiles, passing her hand over her lips. "No names, no pack drill," she teases. 

* * *

Matthew's wish comes true sooner than he thought.

His general, after only a slight hesitation, agrees that a visit to Downton would be a very good idea indeed, and so he finds himself climbing down from the car on a pleasant afternoon, the servants and hosts all lined up neatly outside the house to await their arrival. How odd it is that he'd had such a similar arrival five years before, but now it is Matthew who is the one who has done the inviting, and his mother was amongst the hosts of the visit. 

They're barely two steps towards the door before Cora and Isobel leap to action, each starting in on an introductory speech that rivals the other for attention. He pauses at Mary's side as he walks past, always eager for just a moment with her. 

"Poor Mother. How she longs to hold all the reigns," he muses, though a sharp call from his general forces him away once again. Even on Downton soil he still must be pulled away from Mary. "I should go, if only to keep our respective mothers apart."

She doesn't speak but tilts her head and purses her lips in a familiar smile. 

The servants disperse and the greeting party trails after them. Luckily, Matthew is called on to give the tour of the rooms, which saves either Cora or Isobel the oneupmanship of being selected over the other. There are many strangers, but some men he recognizes. Some he couldn't identify even if he did know them, under the bandages and scars. 

He feels the dormant but ever-lingering feeling of panic start to rise in his chest. These men, all these young men...it could very well have been him. It could very well  _be_ him. This tour had given him respite from the war, but he couldn't be gone forever. 

He manages to hold it together long enough to lead the general around the house, and nearly breathes an audible sigh of relief when they announce it time to dress for dinner. 

Mary looks a bit put out as he strides past her with only a nod, but the truth of the matter is that he's desperate to return to Crawley House just to get away from the reminder of the horrors of the war. 

A few hours' break lets him pull himself together before he has to return to the Abbey, and though she keeps things perfectly proper and professional for him and his general, he can feel her concerned eyes on him. 

It starts just before dinner. They've played social games and behaved like civilized people all afternoon, Matthew standing back quietly, speaking when spoken to, glad for the dress uniform that makes him feel more like a man at a dinner party than a soldier fit for the trenches. But when they all settle down to dinner, the screaming begins. 

Sybil immediately rises and flees the table before Cora can stop her, going to attend to the soldier in the throws of a nightmare. It ends quickly, but Matthew is rattled all the same. He thinks of Private Morris, who lay beside him after an explosion at the Battle of Somme, his choked screams at the sudden pain of his missing arm still ringing in Matthew's ears. 

He wishes he had something to say, some expression he could make just to put his mind on something other than that soldier, but he can't. He can feel Mary's eyes on him from down the length of the table, and it's all he can do to smile and nod at her. 

Dinner leads to drinks, and then they join the ladies in the library. The brandy has settled him somewhat, but he can still hear the soldiers out there, talking, walking. Hushed voices outside of his dugout in the dead of night. 

He's glad he has set down his glass for a moment when a loud metallic crash resonates through the air, making everyone jump. It's echoing ring vibrates in his head, even after Carson steps in to apologize for Mr. Lang dropping a tray on his way from the kitchen. Matthew clutches his hands behind his back to hide their shaking. 

The voices of the soldiers outside, the metallic ringing of metalware, the shuffling of feet, it's all enough to drive him mad. He feels as though he can sense his mind leaving his body, drifting back to France, back to the front.

The officers must be playing some game in the parlour, because a loud shout of victory can be heard beyond the doors and it's too much. Matthew manages to keep his wits about him enough to excuse himself for a moment and flee the room. 

Mary finds him crouched on the floor in the dark dining room, back against the wall and the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes. 

"Matthew, Darling-"

"Go away," he snaps, eyes remaining firmly shut. Then, more softly, "please go away."

"I won't touch you if you don't want me to, but I'm not going anywhere."

He can hear the sound of the fabric of her dress as she slides down the wall to sit beside him. 

It's just their breath that fills the air of the room for some time. 

"The soldiers. The wounded men...it's been weeks since I've been at the front, I've let my guard slip. I didn't think that I would be so...affected."

"I'm so sorry, Matthew. I didn't think..."

"You did," he interrupts, humiliated at his own sniffling. "I saw you watching me earlier, you knew I was a mess."

Mary sighs. "I suspected that something was off about you."

"Well, now everyone does, after I fled from the library like a frightened child."

"I  _know_ you, Matthew, I knew something was wrong because I was looking for it. Your mother, Papa, Mama, they are all distracted by the general's visit. No one thought that something was amiss when you excused yourself, I promise you."

There's silence for another long moment. 

"I wish you would talk to me," she says, and it sends forth another burst of tears from him. 

"I c...can't. Mary, I can't. Not if I want to keep my sanity. Not if I want you to keep yours...I try to push it all aside, try not to think about it while I'm on leave, or else I couldn't possibly function...I have to keep moving or I'll be swallowed whole..."

He knows it's nonsense, only snippets of information that don't amount to much at all, but it's all he can manage to say. He hears the rustle of her dress as she stands, and for one agonizing minute he thinks she's left him, disgusted by his blubbering, until the click of her heels approach again and she's pressing a cool glass into his hand. 

He takes it with shaking hands, downs it in one gulp before setting it aside. It burns his throat, dragging him back to his body and out of his thoughts. There's no point in trying to hide his tears now that she's seen them, and he closes his eyes again, resting his head back on the wall behind him.

"I know I can't make this better for you, Matthew, though I desperately wish that I could. But what can I do? Get you a glass of water? Some more brandy? Make your excuses for you while you have time to rest? What can I do?"

He doesn't dare ask. Does he? "Will you...just hold me? Just for a m...moment?"

Her arms are around him before he finishes his sentence. She rests her hand on his hair as he buries his face into the crook of her neck, unable to keep from weeping. 

When he comes back to himself, she is beside him, still sitting on the old floor in her evening gown, rocking him gently and rubbing firm circles into his back. He straightens, and Mary manages to produce a handkerchief for him, letting him wipe at his eyes and nose. 

"I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you," he croaks. 

"You haven't embarrassed me."

"Then I'm glad one of us isn't embarrassed." 

Mary takes his face between her gloved hands and, despite the tears the sniffling and the blotchy complexion, kisses him soundly. "You shouldn't be embarrassed. Every time I see you, it seems as though you're slipping away from me. You grow more distant, you include less and less detail in your letters. I've been so afraid that I'm losing you, Matthew."

He shakes his head, taking in mouthfuls of air to try to calm himself down. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to...take myself away. I struggle to reconcile my life here with my life in the war."

"I don't need to be protected," she promises him. "I'm stronger than I look. If you need to talk about what's happened, you always can. I mean it. And if you need to stay away from Downton on leave and stay in your pajamas all week and only change long enough to go down to the pub for dinner, I will take the train down to London and we'll do just that. But I am here, Matthew. I'm on your side."

Matthew lets out a shaky breath, finally feeling his resolve harden. "I know you are."

"If you're afraid of making yourself lesser in my eyes you needn't be. I know what a kind, honest, loyal, brave man you are, and being unable to bear the burden of it all alone doesn't lower you, it makes you human."

"A bit like the pot calling the kettle black, you know," he points out, trying to smile. 

"My point exactly. We can't both be cold and unpleasant. Downton would freeze over." 

He manages to laugh at that. "I know you are not as cold and unpleasant as you like to pretend you are."

"Well, don't give me away. Edith would jump at the chance to take advantage of any weakness of mine." 

After a moment's pause, he stands, feeling run-down but much more stable than he had before. He offers both hands to Mary, pulling her to her feet beside him. She carefully smooths his hair back into place, ensuring his cheeks are dry. 

"As long as we're keeping secrets, might I ask that you don't let anyone know that I've broken down in the dining room?"

Mary gives him an amused smile. "Your secret is safe with me, Darling. Wait ten minutes before going back in, you look at little bit red."

He leans down to kiss her, thanking God for a moment alone with her. They've barely had a minute of peace since the war began, and he misses her desperately. "Mm. You should go on ahead, or they'll think we were up to something scandalous together." 

"We have ten minutes, that's enough time to prove them right."

"Don't tempt me." 

She smiles again at him, resting her palm against his cheek. "Are you sure you'll be alright here alone?"

"I'm certain. I truly am s-"

"Honestly, Matthew, if you apologize one more time I'll be livid. I seem to recall the reason we're engaged in the first place is because I confessed my own secrets and fell apart in your arms. We're to be married soon, we can't cling onto our dignity forever. Not if we want to be happy."

She seems so young, sometimes, and inexperienced and sheltered and naive. And then in the next breath she is worldly and wise beyond her years. She's unpredictable, and Matthew suspects she enjoys being so. 

"Go."

"Ten minutes," she warns, brushing off her dress and making her way towards the door. "I mean it. I'm waiting ten minutes exactly and then I'm coming back out to search for you."

* * *

When Matthew returns back to the war, Mary is even more grateful for the distraction of the officers at Downton. 

He, unfortunately, had been with the general when they last spoke, and he could do no more than press a quick kiss to her knuckles before having to go. She had closed her eyes, not sure she could bear to watch him drive off, but a sharp inhale and a cry had startled her out of her quiet state. 

She had been afraid for him, but quickly followed the stares to Mr. Lang, a discharged soldier acting as her father's valet. He was biting his fist against sobs, being held up by the staff as he begged not to return to the front. Her heart clenched, and she turned her gaze towards Matthew. He had already been looking towards her. 

His expression was soft. He was grateful to have been able to fall apart in private. He could see not everyone was so lucky. 

She had been sick with worry when she heard he had returned to the front. After a few weeks with him safe and sound in England, she had nearly forgotten what it felt like to spend every minute of the day in fear for him. 

Edith, of all people, is proving to be a help. Not intentionally, of course, but nevertheless. She has spent the last few days helping the soldiers to organize a concert, put on by the soldiers themselves. Mary had enjoyed acting reluctant and unwilling, finally agreeing to a song and to help plan after much begging, but she is glad to be useful. Singing and party-planning is hardly _useful_ , not really, but it's better than nothing. 

And it gives her plenty to write Matthew about. Silly stories of ridiculous officers, of Edith playing superior, of Papa's desperately annoyed looks when they practice for the event. She hopes it will lift his spirits. 

Inspired by Sybil's own cooking and cleaning lessons from the staff, she's employed Anna to help her learn to knit. The officers here talk of the hand-knitted gifts sent by their loved ones, and she's determined for Matthew to feel loved and cared for in the same way. 

She sends him a desperately ugly pair of socks and a not entirely awful scarf that she and Anna had laughed endlessly over. They may not keep him warm, but they might give him reason to smile, at least. 

Despite the population of the household increasing a tenfold and the new duties and courtesies and difficulties that came with sharing a roof with a hospital, they seemed to have settled into a new kind of normal. 

Until Edith cornered her in the hall one evening after dinner. 

"There's something you ought to know. Papa said not to tell you, but I don't think he's right. 

She looks nervous, genuinely concerned. Mary feels the brighter spirits she had managed to cultivate over the last week evaporate. "Go on."

"Matthew's missing. He was on patrol and he's just sort of...vanished."


	4. Not Missing

_Matthew's missing. He was on patrol and he's just sort of...vanished."_

* * *

"Isobel doesn't know," she hears floating down the hall. They're speaking in hushed voices, but this part of the house is so very quiet. The voices carry. 

"I haven't been able to reach her."

"Have you said anything to Mary?"

"Edith's already told me," Mary speaks up, stepping into the doorway where her parents speak. She knows she must look a fright. After being informed that Matthew had gone missing in the midst of a war zone, she had been struck by such a panic that she had fled to the lavatory and emptied the contents of her stomach. 

Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps they would never really know. Hadn't Anna told her that the shopkeeper in town had never heard the fate of his son after he had gone missing? He was likely just another nameless corpse, rotting into the mud of No Man's Land. Just thinking about it made her queasy again. 

She wishes desperately for Isobel. But she had been gone for weeks, off to France to lend her services to the Red Cross. Though the feud over authority between her and Cora had been irritating, Mary longs for her no-nonsense approach. She doesn't want to be placated with banalities. 

Robert crosses the room, placing an arm on her shoulder and squeezing comfortingly. "Edith told you? Well, I suppose it was too tempting to resist."

"Oddly enough, I don't think she was trying to make trouble," Mary chokes out. "He's dead, Papa."

"Don't say that," Robert scolds. "There are a thousand explanations as to what could have happened. There are a great many young men out there, far too many in too much chaos to properly keep track of them all."

"We mustn't give up hope," Cora agrees, giving Mary one of her pitying smiles. "We need to keep our spirits up and pray for his safe return."

"And why should our prayers be answered? Why should any god keep Matthew safe when hundreds of other young men die every day? I'm sure their mothers, fathers, and wives prayed for them, too."

Robert looks slightly exasperated by her cynicism, but Cora pats the bed beside her, pulling Mary close with a delicate arm around her shoulders. 

"We can only do what we can," her mother replies softly. "The world is a senseless place, and this war has proven it. But we can hope. And pray. Not all of those soldiers will die. There may not be any reason for him to be kept safe above any other man, but there's no more reason for him to die than anyone else, either. He was a solicitor from Manchester a few years ago, and now he's the heir to a large estate and fortune, living in a beautiful county with his mother, and engaged to a woman he loves very much. I should say luck is on his side."

Mary takes a shaky breath, though she cannot deny feeling comforted. Her mother certainly has a knack for it, one that Mary wished she shared. 

Robert looks more at peace, as well. "We should go down. It's time for the concert."

"Who cares about the stupid concert?" Mary mutters sullenly. The thought of having to go downstairs and fake a smile for their entertainment...

"The men do, and we should, too. Because we have to keep going, whatever happens. We have to help each other to keep going."

"If Matthew is recovering in a hospital somewhere, I should like to think that they would make an effort to keep his spirits up," Cora encourages. "These men are somebody's Matthew, we need to care for them the same way."

She doesn't care that these men are somebody else's Matthew, she only cares about  _her_ Matthew, and singing and clapping while a crowd of silly men do magic tricks while her fiancé may be dying in the cold mud somewhere seems more than she can bear. 

But she had been right. Matthew was no different than those other men, just as vulnerable to die at any moment. And she was no different than all of the women left behind in England. She couldn't fling herself from the rooftop in grief any more than they could. The world wouldn't stop for her, or for Matthew. They had to keep moving. 

"I'll follow you down in a moment."

Cora squeezes her hand and then rises, tucking her hand into the crook of Robert's arm as they exit. 

She glances over at herself in the vanity mirror, displeased at the pale, pinched face she sees. How revolting she had found him when they first met. And just now, as she had grown accustomed to her position as Matthew's fiancée, she might have lost it all. 

Mary would have nothing to express her loss and grief. He would just be gone, would be forever known as her 'late fiancé.' At least if they had been married, she could call herself a widow. Sometime tangible. Recognizable. But even that wasn't available to her. 

She always has been rather preoccupied with titles.

* * *

It seems everyone knows. Perhaps she was the very last to be told, besides Mama. 

Granny is sending her sad looks from across the room, the staff all look solemn, and even Edith hasn't uttered a single barb since she'd told her of Matthew's disappearance. A miracle in and of itself. 

The rather large part of her wants to lash out, to tear Edith or Papa or anyone apart just to have something to do, just to feel some emotion other than agony, but she somehow refrains. It isn't like her to bite her tongue, but perhaps Mama's words had gotten to her. 

She wouldn't want some spoiled, selfish girl like herself to ruin a night of enjoyment for Matthew if he was in recovery in a place like this. 

_But if he was recovering in a place like this, he would have been able to send word of his safety._

Edith finishes her piece on the piano, and the performing officer takes off his ridiculous hat with a flourish, bowing as the audience applauds. She plays along half-heartedly, but can barely muster a smile. Things were so much easier when she was known as the icy-hearted one in the family. At least she could pretend to be uncaring. But everyone knew how very much she loved Matthew, and it made it all so much harder to bear. 

But she isn't wholly out of practice. Edith shoots her a pointed look and she rises, plastering a grin onto her face and making her way down the makeshift aisle. 

Wailing and weeping wouldn't bring Matthew back. 

"Most of you won't know how rare it is to see my sister Edith and I pulling together in a double act." Edith rolls her eyes and turns back to her sheet music, and Mary is pleased for the sense of normalcy. Good old Edith, predictably annoyed by her. Mary can't ever remember being grateful for her until now. "But in wartime, we - like all of you - have more important things to worry about. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, the Crawley Sisters."

She has never been a renowned singer. She sketched occasionally, though not as well as Sybil was with watercolours, and Edith had always been the musical one. "My Dear," Granny had said to her when she was a young girl, having been procured to sing (rather poorly) to entertain the adults after dinner. "You are far too pretty and far too wealthy to need worry about cultivating the feminine arts." The jokes about Edith's dedication to learning the piano had come to Mary naturally.

She has improved greatly, at least well enough to agree to this whole concert business. If the men's flirtations were any indication, they would be more content to just look at a woman than listen to her sing. 

_"Some times when I feel bad and things look blue..."_

Like many popular revue songs from London, this one had made its way around the country, and Mary feels confident to nod to the audience to sing along when they reach the chorus. They've been listening to her practice for days, if nothing else, so they must know the words.

Granny looks utterly bewildered, but when did she not, with anything contemporary?

And then he is there. Perfectly polished in his uniform, slipping in the back of the room with William trailing behind. Hat tucked neatly under his arm. Gloves resting in hand. Smiling at her like he hasn't a care in the world.

_Alive._

Mary must have stopped, because the piano trails off, replaced by the sounds of scraping chairs as the audience turns to see what has made her go pale as a ghost.

Matthew glances around, throwing apologetic looks about the room for interrupting, and Mary can't seem to move. Her feet are rooted into the floorboards, her entire body tense with shock. She's afraid, for one brief moment, that she's begun to hallucinate. 

But Robert is out of his chair in an instant, clasping Matthew's hand solidly in not-quite-a-handshake. "My dear boy," he croaks, filled with enough emotion to embarrass Matthew. "My  _very_ dear boy."

He turns back to her, and the very feel of his gaze has her thrumming with energy. He looks expectant, but she can't find her voice, or her feet, and she remains on the makeshift stage, gaping like a fish. 

"Well, don't stop for me," he says at last, stepping in when she stays frozen in place. He comes towards her instead, eyes warm. 

_"I would say such wonderful things to you..."_

Despite the entirety of her body ceasing to function, the feel of the words in her mouth come automatically after so many days of practice, and she joins him shakily as he comes to stand beside her. 

Beside her. Alive. And seemingly unharmed. 

_"If you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy."_

Edith ends the song with a trill, and the officers break into applause. He ducks his head and flushes at the attention, but looks so terribly pleased. Mary can only press her hand to her abdomen, desperately taking in ragged breaths, her sides aching as her corset digs in with each inhalation. 

Matthew turns to her, she can feel his eyes on her, and she has to take a moment before she can meet his gaze lest she burst into tears immediately. 

"Aren't-"

He cuts off with a grunt as she flings her arms around him, crushing his poor hat between their bodies. She doesn't care about the laughter that follows, about how Edith will tease her relentlessly about it, how Granny is likely looking on disapprovingly, because he's solid and warm beneath her hands, and the free arm not trapped between them is on her back, pulling her close. 

"My Darling," he breathes into her ear, and for propriety's sake she has to pry herself away, and it almost physically hurts. 

She isn't sure how long they stand there, Mary clutching his hand with both of hers, but suddenly Edith is there, appearing between them. 

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but we do have three more acts..."

* * *

 

 "Somehow we got lost, and then we were trapped behind some Germans for three days. And when we got out of that, we stumbled into a field dressing station and we were immediately admitted. But we weren't in any danger, so they didn't inform our unit."

The concert has finished, and they stand together in the entryway, herself, Matthew, and Robert. She's sure she hasn't let go of him since his sudden reappearance, her hand tucked soundly into the crook of his arm. In more formal company, she wouldn't have managed it, but given the circumstances, she's sure she'll be forgiven. 

"Well, they should've jolly well told us when you got back to base," Robert says, exasperated but obviously elated. 

"I hope you weren't really worried," Matthew apologizes. 

Robert claps him on the arm. "Oh, you know us. We like to be sure of our hero at the front." He excuses himself to bid goodbye to Violet, and then it's just the two of them.

"I am sorry to have worried you if I did. It wasn't intentional."

"If I weren't so relieved to see you, I might try to pretend I wasn't sick with dread about it."

He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "How quickly things have changed. I do remember a time when my appearance at Downton was terribly unwelcome."

"That was before you were my fiancé and the son my father never had."

He glances down, humbled by her words. "You always say such sweet things."

"Then you've been away too long, you've forgotten what I'm like."

He smiles at that. 

"What will you do with the rest of your leave?" she asks, returning her hand to the crook of his arm and squeezing gently. 

"Well, since Mother isn't here, I suppose I'll have to inflict you with the whole of my company until I go back."

"I'm sure we'll manage somehow," she muses, though she can't bring herself to work up the proper dryness for her comment. She's far too relieved to have him here, standing beside her. 

"You've never said what a songbird you are," he says, amused.

She scoffs. "Hardly. I was determined to improve after Edith began calling me a screech owl as children."

His laughter warms her, though the tight knot in the pit of her stomach has yet to fully loosen. Like every moment of his presence at Downton, he'd have to go back to the front, eventually. Escaping death this time didn't guarantee his safety during the next patrol. Or the next. 

"I thought you sounded lovely. It was very good of you all to put this on. The men look to be in very bright spirits."

"It was Edith who arranged it," she replies dismissively. "But we couldn't leave all the moral high ground to her, she might get lonely up there."

"Heaven forbid," he teases. "I am sorry to have worried you. I hate the thought of your worry, especially so needlessly."

"It wasn't needless, you were missing, Matthew. The worrying never stops, it just expands and recedes given the circumstances. You must know how much you mean to us all. To me."

He studies the floor again. "It's very nice to hear, at any rate. I do hope you don't decide the pain isn't worth it and go off me, find yourself a new fiancé. It wouldn't be difficult, plenty of officers around."

"They're not like picking out a new dress, I shouldn't think. Besides, the only other man who has shown any gentlemanly interest was Richard Carlisle, in London."

"Carlisle?" Matthew says with a frown, trying to appear in jest though it's a bit more sincere than she suspects he was going for. "Should I be worried?"

"I shouldn't think so. He retracted his offer for drinks once I told him I was off the table, so he isn't a beast."

Matthew tries to smile, he really does. "Well, that's something."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, honestly, Darling, he's ancient. Not to mention he runs a trashy tabloid empire in London. And even if he was young and respectable, I'm otherwise engaged. So enough of that, jealousy doesn't suit you."

He has the good sense to look sheepish. "I'd never imply otherwise, Darling. Though I do hope if he runs a gossip rag that you didn't put yourself on his bad side."

"I was perfectly cordial, if you must know," she says haughtily. "Even if he wore the completely wrong suit to dinner."

"Oh, Mary. You can hardly look down on him for being new money when you're engaged to me."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Your money is as old as it comes, Matthew, it's just your possession of it that's new."

Matthew gives her a fond but exasperated look. "I suppose that means you've no new fiancés on the horizon?"

"I'm quite content with the one I have, as long as he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Then he's a very lucky man."

Mary tilts her head back and forth as if contemplating. "Yes, and I think he knows it. Are you happy for me?"

"If he's good to you. If he's not, he'll have me to answer to."

"Now that's a fight I'd like to see," she grins, the feeling of dread easing just a bit more. Then, more seriously, "you'll stay here tonight, won't you?" 

"Do you have the room? It's a rather crowded house, now, with the officers here."

"Darling, it's Downton. We'll find the room," she insists. "If I see you first thing tomorrow, I'll know it hasn't all been a dream."

* * *

She would feel guilty for her request the next day, when Matthew's exhaustion is evident. At least at Crawley House he could have slept the day away, but here everyone wants to be around him, relieved that he's alive, and Matthew seems to feel obligated to entertain them. 

Her family finally allows them some modicum of privacy after dinner in the library, as Edith and Sybil check on the officers one last time and Cora ensures the shift rotation schedule is on-course. It is Robert who then enters a short time later to see their heads bent suspiciously close together, barely visible over the top of the sofa. He makes a grunt to announce his presence, but when that doesn't spring them apart, he walks around to face them. 

"I was wondering-"

"Sh sh," Mary scolds quietly, gently bringing a finger to her lips. Her head is bent towards the book in her lap and Matthew's is pressed into her shoulder, though the boy poor is very obviously fast asleep. "No need to concern yourself with anything improper, Papa, he was out almost as soon as he sat down."

Robert smiles at her soft whisper. "We should get him upstairs. He's been wilting all day, poor chap."

"Let him sleep," she replies. "If we wake him now, he'll apologize and insist on staying up until everyone else retires. If he sleeps all evening, we'll get him up when everyone else is ready to go upstairs."

Mary glances sideways at him, her ever-firm expression softening at the sight, and he sits down on the sofa across from them both. "I hope you know how terribly we proud we are, Mary. Of all three of you and your war efforts, but also of the way you've been with Matthew."

She looks as though she would shake her head if it wouldn't risk dislodging Matthew. "Don't be silly. Edith and Sybil are doing all of the work."

"I've heard through the grapevine how much you write to him, Mary. How you keep his spirits up. I was a soldier too, once, as difficult as that may be to believe. You worry about your life back home. Worry that they're not coping with your absence. Worry that they're coping too well, and that perhaps they've moved along rather well and don't think about you anymore as often as you'd like. I know the comforting and nurturing doesn't come as naturally to you, not the same way it comes to Sybil, but you've done so extraordinarily well."

The door opens and the three women bustle in, though Robert rises to his feet to gesture to them to keep quiet. They come around to the sofas, Cora and Sybil looking on sweetly, Edith rolling her eyes but not looking all that put-out by it. 

It takes the better part of an hour of hushed tones and quiet talking before Matthew stirs, his head heavy as he lifts it from her shoulder. They fall quiet, and when he comes back to himself he immediately flushes. "Crikey, have I fallen asleep? Please forgive me, I'm terribly embarrassed..." he slides along the sofa to put distance between himself and Mary, as if he hasn't been half-draped across her all evening. 

"My dear fellow, you've nothing to apologize for," Robert says quickly. "You're on leave to rest, and we've kept you far too busy."

"I wouldn't worry. Edith is used to people falling asleep when she speaks." It's a rather uninspired barb and not very clever at all, but it turns the attention away from Matthew and moves the topic of conversation along before he can be further embarrassed. 

They don't remain much longer in the library, likely all taking pity on Matthew and his fight to stay alert, and so they say their good-nights and dismiss his apologies.

"Carson, please ensure that Mr. Crawley isn't awoken unnecessarily. If he's up before luncheon, have a breakfast tray brought to his room."

"That isn't necessary-"

"I insist," Robert says firmly. "It's more important to us that you're rested and well when you return to the front than it is to observe proper protocol every second of the day."

"Don't let Cousin Violet hear you say that," Matthew jokes, nodding to the ladies as they slip out of the library. Mary hopes that Papa might give her a moment alone with Matthew, but no such luck. Proper protocol can't be entirely abandoned, apparently. 

"Sleep well, Darling," she says, kissing his cheek. "And please lie in tomorrow. If I see you at the breakfast table I'll be terribly cross."

"We wouldn't want that," he muses, reluctantly releasing her hand as he follows her out of the library, Robert trailing behind. 


	5. The Injury

Papa is in a huff over Matthew's last visit. 

With his daughter's future tied to Matthew, he apparently saw fit to keep Matthew updated even throughout the war with the estate. However, upon casually mentioning his hopes in a Canadian railway investment, Matthew had reacted poorly, pleading with Robert to diversify. Papa, of course, had taken it as a questioning of his capabilities. 

Mary isn't really sure about the details, honestly, because she hasn't been listening too intently. She had chastised Papa to make amends with Matthew before he had left for the front again, and while they had reconciled and Papa had agreed to move around his investments, Mary could see he was still unhappy about. 

"Papa, you can't expect to include him in the running of the estate but not allow him any say," she had said to him in the library, weeks after Matthew leaves and Papa's mood still hasn't improved. "You have been a good caretaker to the estate, but it will be Matthew's job to bring it into the future. That's how it will survive." 

He had been none-too-pleased by that, either, but Mary's cool, collected reproaches held up far better than his resentful mumblings. He would come around he always did. Just later than she would have liked. 

"You mustn't let this strain your relationship with him," she had said later that night when she's recovered. "What if something happens to him? You'll never forgive yourself for letting something as stupid as _diversifying your financial investments_ come between you."

It's meant to be hypothetical. Merely a pointed comment to make him realize how stupid fighting over finances were when men were dying at the front. 

But when she receives a prod to the shoulder in the middle of the night, it becomes very, very real. 

"O'Brien? What on earth-"

"You'd best come downstairs, M'lady. Your father wants me to rouse you."

* * *

Molesley is already in the library when she arrives, along with Mama and Papa. Sybil and Edith appear in due course, all of them wrapped up in their pajamas and dressing gowns. Mary isn't sure she's ever stepped foot downstairs in her dressing gown. 

Matthew is injured. Severely injured. Matthew might have died already before news could even reach them of his injury. 

She's never been the swooning type, but she feels that she might faint at any moment. 

"The main thing is, he's not dead," says Papa, brandishing the telegram. Blessed Molesley, who had heard the messenger pounding on the door. "Not yet, anyway. They've patched him up. They're bringing him to the hospital in Downton."

They know nothing more. Isobel likely doesn't even know. Matthew's mother, the woman who had been so kind and understanding towards Mary and her past, continuing on at the Red Cross all the while her son as severely hurt. And she didn't even know. 

Papa steps out to tell the servants of the news, and Mary feels guilty for a moment for not giving a thought to William. They likely care more about word of him than Matthew. 

"We don't know anything yet. We've seen plenty of young men here with serious injuries that recover." Robert has appeared beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

"We only see the ones that recover, Papa. How many in their thousands don't make it this far?"

He sighs. "Mary, I am just as concerned as you are. We all need to have hope. All of us."

"I know," she croaks, and then, more quietly, "I'm sorry. I am."

"I'll telephone as soon as the War Office opens. We'll know more than."

Mary nods. "Whatever you discover...tell me. Don't keep anything back."

With a pitying look, he kisses her cheek. Unable to muster any words of comfort for him, Mary slips away. 

* * *

"I thought I would take some things down to the hospital," she says, packing a bag as she speaks. "Then I can wait and sit with him when he arrives. I've read somewhere that it's very important not to leave them alone when they're first wounded so no sign goes unnoticed. They can't spare a nurse to watch over every man." She clenches her fists, trying to disguise the shakiness of her hands. "So. That's what I can do."

"We've tried to contact Isobel," Papa says, looking just as ashen as she must. Not for the first time, she feels selfish. So caught up in her own grief, she forgets how very loved Matthew has become. She can't think of a single soothing thing to say. 

"Yes. I'm glad someone's thought of that. Maybe she should stay here. Not be at Crawley House by herself."

"It's closer to the hospital," he reminds her. "She may prefer it."

"I know," Mary acknowledged. "I just can't bear the thought of her being alone."

"She won't be alone, wherever she stays. She is family. She is our cousin and she is your mother-in-law." 

Mary straightens, trying to look as though she is assessing the contents of her packing but instead desperately trying to hold back tears. "She isn't my mother-in-law. She may never be. Oh Papa."

He steps forward, turning her around and firmly putting his hands on her shoulders. "Mary, the wedding would merely be a formality. He is as much a son to us as you are a daughter to Cousin Isobel. You are two of the most stubborn, head-strong women I know. If you can't pull him back from the brink with sheer willpower alone, I'd be awfully surprised."

Mary touches his wrist, steadying herself. "I'll try to update you. When he arrives, if anything changes."

Robert nods. "Thank you, Darling. Branson's waiting in the car, whenever you're ready."

* * *

"Right. They're here!" Dr. Clarkson calls. 

Mary meets Sybil's gaze over the bed that they're dressing together. Sybil probably could have done it herself in half the time, but she can no doubt tell that Mary is desperate for something to do. 

"I want to help, too," Mary speaks when Sybil prepares for his arrival. 

Dr. Clarkson looks pitying. "Lady Mary, I appreciate your good intentions, but I'm concerned that Captain Crawley's condition may be very distressing for you. Might I suggest that you hang back until the nurses have tidied him up a little?"

Mary glances at Sybil. Hang back? While he lays there, injured and possibly dying? She'd had to hang back for two years, going round and round before finally getting engaged. She wasn't about to hang back now that she could touch him. 

"I won't get in your way," she vows, trying to show him a steely resolve. "I promise. But I will stay. You have volunteers, don't you? Well, that's what I am. A volunteer."

Dr. Clarkson has known her since her infancy, and knows better to argue. 

Sybil directs her on where to stand so they can bring in the stretcher. 

It's only a moment before her resolve starts to break. 

He's still on the stretcher, only lolled back and forth by the movements of the bearers. He looks quite like a corpse, pale and waxen, though he's dressed in the striped hospital pajamas she had grown used to seeing. Cuts and bruises litter his face and eyes, and he's unshaven. She's never seen Matthew with stubble. 

"Take him under his feet," Sybil orders, and in a trance, she complies, and they heft his limp body onto the cot. Oh, Matthew. 

"He's breathing," the stretcher bearer assures them, "but he's not been conscious since we've had him. We filled him full of morphine."

"Thank you," Sybil replies, and Mary finds herself unable to find the strength to do so, too. 

His pajamas are soiled, dirt and blood staining the collar, and he smells of antiseptic and sweat. Her fingers rest gently on his chest, letting herself be comforted by the rise and fall of his breathing, before they linger to the brown paper card tied to the third button of his shirt. 

"What does it say?" Sybil asks, looking quite taken aback herself by the state of him. 

"' _Probably spinal damage_ ,'" Mary reads, glancing up at her sister for a reaction. It isn't good. 

"It could mean anything," Sybil assures, though she looks away. "We'll know more in the morning."

She thinks of the soldiers with missing legs limping around Downton. Will that be Matthew? Mary can't look away, reaching out to gently brush his dirty hair away from his face. He had been administered morphine, but what about later? Would he awaken in agony?

"What's this doing here?"

Mary tears her gaze from his bloody and bruised face to Sybil, who's holding the worn and familiar figure of the plush dog she had bestowed at the train station. The morning they were engaged. 

"I gave it to him for luck," Mary manages, voice shaking. "He was probably carrying it when he fell."

Sybil's eyes drift to the paper card on his chest.  _Probable spinal damage._ "If only it had worked."

Mary thinks of all the pitying looks she had given to the soldiers around Downton, hobbling along on their remaining legs. She's disgusted with herself. 

"He's alive, isn't he?" she snaps, brushing her fingers gently through his hair again, too afraid to risk hurting him to stroke his pale cheek. 

"I should wash him," Sybil says softly, warningly. "This can be a bit grim. Sometimes we have to cut off the clothes they've travelled in, and there's bound to be a lot of blood."

If a lifetime of keeping her emotions safely behind a mask of composed determination had been practice, this is the ultimate exam. 

She stands, meeting Sybil's eyes.

"How hot should the water be?"

* * *

Sybil was right. It's a grim task. 

His ribs are so heavily bruised that it looks as though they've been painted purple and black.

She wields the scissors, slicing through his shirt, through the neckline and down the arms as she'd been instructed, before starting on his trousers. 

For a woman far more familiar with the male anatomy than most unmarried girls her age, she still feels flushed as she pulled the cloth from his body. 

Sybil is quick to cover his modesty with a blanket, and they set to work wiping his chest and face. Mary cannot believe so much blood and dirt can even cling to one human body, but the water basins turn pink and then brown, and she has to tear herself from his side to get a clean bin. 

He's so very thin. His abdomen caves beneath his ribcage. She had made comment about it last time she'd seen him. He'd made a jest about eating tinned stew being enough to make even the hungriest man think twice. He'd been starving. 

Matthew had come home on leave, desperate for food and rest, and he'd sat rigid at the dinner table in his finery, eating slowly and respectably like a gentleman, listening to them chat about estate management and concerts.

The thought of it was nearly too much to bear. How he must have wanted to scream at them for their stupidity and vanity.

They place the blanket over his cleaned chest and then fold it up to his thighs to scrub his legs. Mary distracts herself by gathering the dirty towels while Sybil makes quick work of cleaning his pelvis before she's covering him again. 

Mary has never been prouder of her younger sister, she wishes she could find the words to express it. She feels overcome with despair, and yet Sybil has barely flinched, doing her duty quickly and efficiently without even pausing to collect herself. 

She sees Mary's pale face and offers a small smile. "He's not the worst I've seen," she tries to reassure, and horror-filled scenarios of Matthew's even more mangled body flash past her vision. How could this be any worse?

"What now?" Mary asks, standing beside Sybil by the basin and scrubbing her hands with soap. 

"We wait, I'm afraid," Sybil responds, wiping her hands on her apron. Mary dries her own hands on her skirt, the fabric turning dark. "He likely has enough morphine in him to take down a horse. Why don't you go home for a little while, Darling? Give Papa a briefing."

"I'll telephone him from her," she responds pointedly. "I'm not going anywhere." She repeats what she has said to Papa about looking for any signs of change, and while Sybil looks sympathetic she also looks grateful. 

"Alright. But boring holes into his skull with your eyes isn't going to make him wake up any faster," she reminds Mary. "Don't neglect your own rest while you're keeping watch over him. When Cousin Matthew wakes up, he'll need you to be strong." 

Mary nods, though she's not sure how much strength she can promise. 

* * *

He sleeps all day.

Despite her initial resistance, Mary is convinced to return home and rest by the nurses, by Sybil. 

"What if he wakes up and is confused or afraid?" she had pleaded with them. 

"Then the nurses here will set him right," Sybil promised. "Mary, please. Papa and Mama are already worried sick about Matthew. Don't give them any more reason to be afraid." 

The parental guilt trip. Maybe the only thing that could move her. 

Though she had little to say, she updated Robert and Cora, picking at her dinner and then deciding to retire early. She'd barely done anything, and yet she felt as if she'd been awake for a week. Sybil was a saint, really she was. 

It was Anna who told her about William's condition. No one else thought to bother her with it, but she wanted to know. She knew Matthew would want to know. 

"There's...I'm afraid there's something else, M'lady."

"More bad news?" she asks wearily as Anna folded her clothing and tucked her shoes away. "I don't know if I can bear any more today, Anna."

"I'm sorry, M'lady, but it might be rather urgent."

Mrs. Bates. Back again to wreck havoc on their already-suffering household, Anna explains. She's out for blood, determined to sell Mary's scandalous affair with Mr. Pamuk to the papers. 

She barely retains her composure, though whether she'd scream or burst into tears if she did boil over isn't certain. 

Matthew would know what to do. Matthew would comfort her, would promise to take to his legal books to stop all this. 

"I'm so sorry, M'lady. Mr. Bates has given her every last penny to keep her quiet, but she's tricked him, and now he's got nothing left to bargain with."

She nods, too exhausted and drained to offer any assurance to Anna. The two of them had the worst luck of any couple she'd ever known, perhaps even more than she and Matthew. 

"I met a Sir Richard Carlisle in London. He seemed quite amiable towards me. Maybe if I contact him, there might be something he can do."

"Will he, if he can? He doesn't know you well, M'lady, and he is in the business of scandal."

"I don't know," she sighs, "but I'm far too drained to do any more than that right now. I should be grateful all of this is coming out now and not sooner. There's a war going on, the scandal won't last near as long as it might have done. Besides, I have bigger things to worry about than gossip at this point."

"How is he?" Anna asks quietly. "Mr. Crawley, I mean. Was it awful? They've said William's in bad shape, I can only imagine..."

"Alright," she lies. "Not in any immediate danger, or so says Dr. Clarkson. But he looks so very ill. I hate to think of it."

Anna nods, apologising again for the trouble before disappearing out the door. Not for the first time, Mary kneels by her beside, pulling the photo of Matthew from the book on the nightstand and setting it before her. And she prays. 

She wasn't sure if she even believed in any of it anyways, and even if it was true, why would God grant the prayers of a cynical, sharp-tongued, ruined women? 

But it's the only thing she can do. Mama had been right, all of those months ago when Matthew was missing. It was all she could do.

* * *

 How could she face any of them again if he died? 

Anna, Carson, and Mrs. Hughes had all expressed to her how much they hoped for Matthew's recovery, and one more was added when Branson did she same as she slipped into the back of the car at the break of dawn. 

How could she ever meet their sorrowful looks as she passed in the corridor? 

Mary hasn't slept a wink, rising with the sun and ringing the bell. To her surprise, Anna was up only minutes later. 

"I thought you might want an early start today, M'lady," she had said, and then went quiet as she helped Mary dress. For all the trouble her beau had caused Mary, or was about to, Anna is an excellent maid. 

Not surprising, Matthew is still asleep, but the new shift of nurses must have been warned of Mary's hovering, because they let her in without question, one of them procuring a chair for his bedside. 

The garish bruises and scratches look just as alarming in the early light, perhaps even more so as the rising sun casts long shadows over the hollows of his gaunt face. 

Despite not having a moment's rest last night, the fear of scandal and her terror over Matthew's condition suddenly weighs heavily on her shoulders, though she fights to stay alert, to watch him for any signs of distress.

She must have dozed, however, to be startled awake by the sound of his voice. 

"My Darling."

His eyes are half-closed but still settle on her, a small, a pained smile on his lips. 

"Oh, Matthew," she gasps, bending at the waist to scoop up his hand and press her lips to it. She brings it to her cheek, closing her eyes as a few tears slip from her eyes. "My Darling, you're awake."

"Where am I?" he croaks, his voice hoarse and rough. She sets his hand back down by his side to fetch him water. When he struggles, she slips her hand behind his head to lift his lips to the glass. 

"You're at the hospital, Darling, in Yorkshire. You were brought yesterday in such terrible shape and gave us all a fright."

"Mmm." The short exchange seems to have spent all of his energy, and he closes his eyes again, though his fingers lift briefly, seeking her hand. She obliges, again pressing her lips to his knuckles. 

A nurse passes and she waves her down, eager to get Dr. Clarkson at his side as soon as possible.

"Mary?"

"I'm still here, Darling," she soothes, running her fingers through his hair. She's not sure she's ever used the word 'darling' so many times in her life, but she can't help herself. It seems she must either smother him with affection or burst into tears. He seems to fall in and out of consciousness, and she's quick to assure him in his confused state. 

Dr. Clarkson appears, and before she can move out of his way he shakes his head, instead taking the other side of the bed so she can sit with him. 

"Mr. Crawley, can you hear me?" he asks, removing his stethoscope from his pocket. He glances up at her. "You said he's been conscious?"

"He's called me by my name and asked where he was. He didn't seem distressed or confused," she reports. "He drifts in and out. His voice was hoarse, I gave him a sip of water."

Clarkson nods, checking his heart and lungs. It's agony, waiting in silence until Clarkson straightens in his chair. "It could be much worse. I don't hear any signs of damage to his heart or lungs. His breathing is shallow, but that might be the pain more than anything."

"What does that mean?" she asks. "What now?"

"Now we wait." She hates that phrase. All she seems to do is wait. "When he's more conscious and can answer some of our questions, we can better understand what we're dealing with." He must see her pursed lips, because he offers her a comforting smile. "He's not in any immediate danger, Lady Mary, let us be grateful for that."

She nods. "I am. Really. Thank you, Dr. Clarkson. 

She means it. 

Mary stays by his side for hours as he wakes and then sleeps, gathering bits of information whenever she can. 

A shell, it sounded like, had landed in front of them, throwing them backwards. Matthew and William. 

Dr. Clarkson appears and disappears, never ordering her to move, listening to her careful reports of his condition. He doesn't seem irritated or annoyed, at least. 

Matthew seems to gain ground as the day progresses. She helps him drink water when he asks, inquires about medication when he moans in pain, massages his hands and wrists. They're the only thing that don't look like the slightest touch will hurt. 

Sybil is in for a later shift, smiling warmly at her and offering her a striped apron to tie around her waist when she catches Mary wiping at Matthew's lips after he drinks and drying them on her skirts. 

When Matthew can keep his eyes open for more than a few moments, Dr. Clarkson arrives for an examination. Mary helps wedge a pillow between his legs and then rolls him gently, brushing her hand over his cheek when he lets out a grunt of pain. Modesty screens are set up around them, and Mary doesn't flinch when his shirt his hiked up his back, revealing a pair of vile looking bruises in the centre of his spine. 

"Mary?"

"I'm just here, Matthew. You're alright."

Dr. Clarkson begins at the nape of his neck, pressing a gentle finger down along his spine. "Do you feel that?" he asks. "And that?"

Again and again, working his way down Matthew's spine. 

"Do you feel that?" Clarkson quizzes.

"Mmhmm," Matthew breathes, fighting to stay awake. 

"What about that?"

"No."

The screen to her right parts just slightly, and Mary turns to see Robert's shocked face looking back at her. His eyes drift to Clarkson, and then Matthew, and Mary sees emotion swim across his face. 

Was it so terrible? Matthew was clean, conscious, and alive. Had she grown such a tough skin so quickly?

Matthew seems half-asleep again, and so Mary takes the opportunity to slip out from behind the screens to join Robert. He looks over her calm face and apron with raised brows, but doesn't comment. She's glad. What could she have said? 

"Have you heard from Cousin Isobel?"

"Not yet," he replies. "But I'm sure we will soon. Have they found out what happened to him?" he asks, and Mary fills him in on the bursts of information he'd been able to share. 

"The explosion threw Matthew against something." She glances back to the screens. 

"Go on."

She sighs. "Dr. Clarkson thinks...there may be trouble with his legs."

At Robert's crestfallen look, she reaches out to rest a hand against his arm. The screens scraping against the floor draw their attention, and Dr. Clarkson slips from behind them, a solemn look on his face.

"Not good news, I'm afraid," he says slowly. "I'd say the spinal cord has been transected. That it is permanently damaged."

Mary feels her pulse pounding in her ears. Oh God, no. 

"You mean he won't walk again?" Robert asks weakly, resting his hand over Mary's against his elbow. 

"If I'm right, then no. He won't."

Mary presses her eyes shut. Yesterday, she had been afraid that Matthew would have to have a leg amputated. This was worse than she had feared, far worse. 

"I would only say that he will, in all likelihood, regain his health. This is not the end of his life."

"Just the start of a different life," she finishes. 

When she opens her eyes again, Dr. Clarkson is staring at her with a concerned look. He glances back to Robert. 

"Lord Grantham, I wonder if I might have a word."

Robert nods to Mary before the two men step out, and Mary is left standing in the midst of the hospital, surrounded by cots and sick soldiers, trying not to act as if her entire life hasn't just been turned upside down. 

But she wouldn't wail or fall to her knees. She would grieve in private, on her own. It was her duty to comfort Matthew, not the other way around. 

She steps back behind the screens. 

He's lying on his back, now, the blankets tucked carefully around him. His eyes are still darkly bruised, the cuts on his face rather ghastly-looking. The growing stubble on his chin almost looks bruise-like itself against the paleness of his skin. He looks more ghost than man

His eyes are closed, but the sound of her moving draws his attention. He sees her and smiles. 

"Hello, Darling."


	6. Protest

The world swims above him. He can see her face, leaning over him, calling him. 

_Matthew._

He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. 

_"Matthew."_

His eyes open. 

* * *

"Are you feeling a bit less groggy?"

Despite a general, thrumming ache all over his body, he manages to work up the energy to turn his head. She's there, very much real, or at least he thinks so. 

Every time he opens his eyes, he can see her face, hear her voice, but he falls under again, too exhausted to stay awake. 

It takes him a moment to work up the ability to speak. 

"How long have you been here?"

She smiles sweetly at him. A glance down reveals she's holding his hand, cradling his palm gently between her long fingers. 

"Never you mind."

He swallows again, building momentum for his next burst of speech. "How's William?" Her face falls at that. "Y...you know he tried to save me?"

She leans in close, reaching out with her other hand to stroke his temple. "He...isn't too good, I'm afraid." 

The sick feeling of grief washes over him. Young William had leapt in to pull him out of the way, and now he was paying for it. "Any sign of Mother?" It should be rather embarrassing. He's a thirty-three year-old man, and he desperately wants his mother by his side. He feels he can weep in front of her, at least. He can't fall apart with Mary here. Though he supposes he's already fallen apart in her arms, before. 

Mary smiles softly at him. "Not yet. But I'm sure she's making her way back by now." She leans down and presses a kiss against his forehead. She smells of perfume. He's never been this close to smell it so strongly before. 

He closes his eyes as she brushes his hair gently back from his face. Mary, eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, sitting by his side and nursing him. He might have laughed, if someone had told him this at their first meeting. 

"I've...I've still got this funny thing with my legs," he breathes, fighting to stay away. "I can't seem to move them. Or...feel them, now that I think about it. Did Clarkson mention what that might be." 

Her face changes, he can see the expression morph on her features. She looks stoic, but more strained. "Why don't we wait for Papa, Darling? Then we can all talk about it together."

The words form in his mouth but he can barely get them out. He isn't sure he wants to. "Tell me."

She smiles faintly, looking pale. "You've not even been here for twenty-four hours. Nothing will have settled down yet."

"Tell me."

Mary swallows thickly, he's close enough to see the movement in her throat. "He...says you may have damaged your spine." He hands strays to his cheek, gently stroking his skin. 

"How long will it take to repair?"

"You can't expect them to put timings on that sort of thing."

"But he did say it would get better?" Matthew asks, as forcefully as he's able. The vague answers are driving him mad. He can feel a quivering bubble of panic rise in him. 

Mary plasters on a smile. "He says the first task is to rebuild your health. That's what we have to concentrate on."

It bursts. Cold washes over him. He wants to shove Mary away and pull her closer and cry into her all at once. He hasn't the energy to do any of it.

"He says there was no reason you should not have a perfectly full and normal life." 

He can feel the tears burn in his eyes. "Just not a very mobile one," he wheezes. She pulls away enough to take his hand in both of hers again, squeezing it gently. 

She doesn't speak, just holds his hand tightly, stroking the knuckles with her thumb and pressing kisses to his fingertips. He fights back tears, cursing himself for ever believing that the two of them might be able to be happy. Is this what he got, for wanting her so badly?

"Thank you for telling me," he manages after a long time, tears slipping down his cheek ."I know I'm...blubbing, but I mean it. I'd much rather know. Thank you."

She rises from her chair this time to sit on the edge of his bed. She moves his hand to her lap and leans down to kiss him. She doesn't linger long, not with so many people around, but it's all he can do not to break down before her. He wants her to wrap her arms around him tightly, to grab at the fabric of her blouse to ground himself. 

"Blub all you like," she says, and he can tell that she's trying to hold back tears herself. "Everything will turn out in the end, you'll see." 

"Mary," he chokes out, and she wraps her arms around him as best she can, pressing kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips and neck. It's some time before his breathing gets steadier, and he isn't hitching back sobs. 

"This isn't your burden to bear alone, you know. I'll be here for every step of your recovery." She kisses his hand again before rising. "Now, would you like some tea? I would."

Mary turns, making her way swiftly across the room, her shoulders hunched and trembling. 

How disappointed she must be. 

* * *

"Mary? Could we speak to you for a moment?"

Mary pauses in the entryway, Carson still holding her coat, one glove still on her hand. 

"I've just gotten home, Papa, could it wait?" She fears her eyes are still swollen and red from stifling sobs in the nurses' station, biting her fist to keep from making noise.

"No, I'm afraid not."

She's sure if she hadn't been living on the verge of panic for the last week, she might have been filled with dread. Dread is the new normal, there isn't much left. 

To her surprise, both Robert and Cora are in the library, along with Violet. They all look solemn and severe, and this time she can feel the beginnings of worry bubble up within her. 

"I know it isn't Matthew, I just came from there. So what's happened?"

"It is about Matthew," Robert says softly but firmly, gesturing for her to sit. "Nothing new, don't worry. I think we need to...have a discussion."

She sighs. "His legs might not get better, but they won't get any worse, Papa. Can't we discuss this later? I just need-"

"Mary," Cora interrupts, softly but firmly. "Listen to your father, please. This is something we need to talk about."

Mary sits back, biting her tongue and just nodding. "Alright, then. I'm listening."

"I think we need to go over some...practicalities...of the future of the estate."

"His legs don't work, Papa, but there's nothing wrong with his brain," she replies. "He'll have no trouble running the estate. It's not as though there's much leg-work involved."

Robert huffs a bit at that, but doesn't take the bait. "I'm not talking about the day-to-day business of running things. Or the business at all, really. I'm talking about more...personal matters."

Mary feels three intense set of eyes on her, watching for her reaction. She won't give them the satisfaction of an emotional outburst. "You mean Matthew and myself," she says simply, calmly. 

"Yes, I'm afraid so. The way you have been nursing him has been honourable, Mary, and more than most fiancées would do. But we've had a talk and think that you need to face the reality of what kind of future you would have with him now."

She feels cold. "Because he can't walk?"

"Because there can't be any children, Mary," Robert replies. "There can't be...anything."

She feels so very stupid for not putting it together earlier. Of course. Numb from the waist down would mean everything, wouldn't it? She does her best to school her expression in front of the crowd. She could break down in her room upstairs, mourn at the future she hadn't even really wanted until she'd met him. 

"You didn't have any sons and found an heir. I don't see why Matthew can't do the same. If Julius Caesar could pick a relative at will to take over the Roman Empire after his death, surely it's good enough for Downton."

"Mary," Cora says, partly exasperated partly scolding. "Stop thinking about the Abbey for just a moment, please. We're talking about you. About your future. We love Matthew, you know that we do, he's more dear to us all than anyone. But are you really willing to spend the rest of your life as a nursemaid, without children and grandchildren? Even if you are Countess of Grantham, it's a very big sacrifice to make."

"I can't be sure I'm hearing this right. You honestly want me to throw him over? You have been pushing me at Matthew from the moment he stepped foot on the property, and now that he's injured, after fighting for king and country, he's suddenly not a good match for me?"

Robert sighs. "Mary, we just want you to be happy."

"Since when?" she laughs, surprised at the venom in her own voice. "You were all willing to thrust me at Patrick when I could barely stand to be in a room with him, that he was the heir seemed to be the only relevant fact."

"Mary," Cora scolds again. "We aren't demanding that you leave Cousin Matthew, we just want you to think about what you would be giving up in marrying him. No one would blame you for-"

"I would blame myself," Mary scoffs indignantly. "He would blame me. I don't recall 'in sickness and in health, as long as the bottom-half still works' written in any marriage vows that I've heard. I wavered once when his inheritance wasn't secure, and I almost lost him forever. I promised I would never do something so stupid as to risk my future with him again."

She rises from the sofa, glaring at both of her parents' chastised and irritated expressions. 

"I don't want to hear another word of this. I mean it. Not a word. Especially not in front of Matthew."

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed from the room and up the stairs, hoping that the force in which she slams her bedroom door will convince them all that she doesn't collapse onto the floor, hand braced against the mattress as she weeps. 

Matthew, the sweet, grounded man who put his family above everything else in his life, would never have children. Her fiancé is still alive, and yet she still has to mourn, mourn for the life she had dreamed for them. 

Tomorrow, she would pull herself together, smile and run her fingers through his hair, help him change and drink and eat. She would have to be strong for the both of them. 

But she had tonight to herself. 

* * *

She dons her apron before stepping into the hospital, greeting the now-familiar nurses as they brush past. 

"I think they're rather glad that you're here. Matthew needs a lot of care, and you're making our jobs much easier," Sybil had soothed when Mary expressed concern about getting in the way. 

She's handed a tray of soup at the nurses' station, and she smiles at them before carrying it carefully to Matthew's bedside. If he looked pale when he first arrive, he nearly blended into the white sheets of his bed now. Even his pale green pajamas stood bright against his pasty complexion. As she arrives, he stares straight up at the ceiling. 

A nurse is clearing a bedpan from his side table, and Mary waits a moment before approaching. She is hardly squeamish, not anymore, but she hates the thought of embarrassing him. He is an injured man, but he has just as much right to dignity as anyone else. She doesn't want him to feel pitied. 

Matthew's turn for lunch arrives, and another nurse helps pull Matthew into sitting position before hurrying off to the next bed, leaving Mary to adjust the pillows behind his back for comfort. 

"How's that, Darling?"

He doesn't answer, just stares stony-faced at the opposite wall. 

Matthew has stumbled in and out of despair since she had broken the news, sometimes sad but logical, other times unresponsive. This appears to be a bad day. 

She moves the tray from the table to his lap, sitting down at the edge of his bed carefully so as not to upset the bowl. With a cheery smile, Mary lifts the spoon to his lips. He doesn't move. 

"Matthew, please," she pleads. A hunger strike without a cause isn't something she feels capable of coping with at the moment, and to her relief, he cracks open his dry lips, letting her feed him. 

"Dr. Clarkson says your strength is returning," she says to make conversation, eager to improve his mood. He always got stroppy when she had to help him with the simplest of tasks. "A few more days and you won't have to put up with my shaky hands and spilled soup any longer, you'll be doing it yourself." 

He's unwavering in his silence, but he swallows the spoonfuls of broth she brings to his lips. He finishes half the bowl before he makes a grunt of displeasure, and she wipes his face before calling the nurse over to help lower him back down onto the sheets. She about to take the tray back herself when the nurse extracts it from her hands with a soft smile. 

She sits in the familiar chair at his bedside, brushing back his hair fondly before digging for the back she's brought along. "I've packed some books with me this time, I thought I might read to you. If I were cruel, I would have brought all of own my favourites and made you suffer through them. You're a lucky man."

Matthew makes another discontented sound, like a wounded animal, and Mary rises again to lean over him. 

"Matthew, my Darling, I wish you would just let me know if you need something. I know you're upset now, but it hurts me to think you might be sitting there in pain or uncomfortable if I can fix it for you. Please talk to me."

He swallows thickly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Fix it for me? You can't fix it for me, no one can."

This again. She sits back down in her seat gingerly, reaching for his hand. He pulls it away, resting it on his abdomen. 

"I know that I can't fix it," she says slowly. "And I know it all seems so hopeless now. But in time, you'll gain your strength back. Your independence back. You'll come to Downton Abbey to recover, be surrounded by the people who love you most in this world. I know it will never be quite the same as it was, Darling, but we'll find a...new normal. We'll get through somehow."

Matthew made a sound between a gasp and a laugh. Perhaps it was a sob. "This isn't a missing eye or a limp. I can't walk, Mary. I'll never walk again. What sort of husband could I be? What sort of future could we have?"

She made a dismissive gesture. "I don't care if you can't walk. You must think me very feeble if you believe that would make a difference."

"I know it wouldn't..." he croaks out, eyes falling sideways to finally look at her. He sounds as if he's struggling to breathe, and she nearly rises to help him, but a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head makes her seat herself again. "I love you s...so much for saying it. But there's...something else, which...may not have occurred to you." He closes his eyes, and Mary can see them well with tears. 

"Matthew, I-"

He shakes his head again. "This is very difficult," he whispers, his breathing shallow, pleading with her to just be quiet so he can get it out. "We can never be properly married."

"The archbishop would disagree. Catholics and bigamists, maybe, but legs that don't work aren't a reason to refuse a wedding."

"Mary," he says firmly. "Not  _properly."_

Her gaze drops to her hands. She thinks of Mama and Papa in the library, their stern expressions. "As a matter of fact, it has occurred to me. And I've given it a great deal of thought over the last little while. And while it will be difficult, I've no doubt, I know that I would be happier with you and without children than I would marrying anybody else. Besides, we could have ended up with a bunch of little Ediths, perhaps it's for the best."

"Don't joke," he chokes out. "It might not...seem important now, b..but it will be. I think it should be. And I couldn't possibly be responsible for...stealing away the life you ought to have."

"The life I ought to have?" she repeats. "You mean a life at Downton, my home, married to the man I love, living out our days together? The only stealing away of the life I ought to have is being attempted by you at this very moment. I think you forget that I've had some experience with the intimacies you're suggesting. I can't say I was impressed by it."

He closes his eyes tightly. "For God's sake, Mary."

"I am not under the delusion that this will be easy, Matthew. I'm not. I have been raised to take on the running of a large household, I'm not unfamiliar with heavy responsibilities. I'll not be turned away by this."

"I won't fight with you," he says coldly, returning his gaze to ceiling as though to dismiss him. "But I won't steal your life away. Go. Home. Don't come back here."

She reaches out to capture his hand, but again he pulls away with as much force as he can muster. Part of her wants to cry and plead with him, while the other wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

Instead, she sighs, wiping her hand on her apron with as much casual air as she can muster. "Your hands are like ice. I'm getting you another blanket. You should rest. And when you wake up, I will be here." It comes out half soothingly and vaguely threatening. She gently grasps him under the chin, holding him in place and pressing a firm, pointed kiss against his cheek. "I'll be back in a few moments.  _Darling_."

* * *

She rings Carlisle in London, but is informed he isn't in the office. She resigns herself to leave a message and pray he calls back. 

It is, however, the least of her concerns. 

Mary refuses to tell her parents about Matthew's attempt at breaking off the engagement. They would just continue to pry into what didn't belong to them, try to influence her to listen to him. She had barely managed to hit from shaking Matthew, she didn't have the strength to be flippant with them, either. 

If she had any inkling that Matthew had found someone else, that he found her distasteful, that he truly didn't want her any longer, she would have stepped aside immediately. But his guilt over sticking her with a man that she _wanted_ to be with? 

She wasn't some soft, sweet, weak-willed young girl. Who did he think he was dealing with? 

But Matthew was stubborn, too. He spent the first few days after the attempted break refusing to so much as look at her. He wouldn't allow her to feed him or help him drink. He fought with her as she tried to wash and dress him, but he was far too weak still to put up much resistance. She showed up every day without fail with an obnoxiously cheery smile and a sickeningly sugary voice. If he wanted to be bitter, she would rot his teeth with sweetness. 

He changed tactics, then, and started voicing his complaints. Pleading with her. Abusing her with bursts of anger and cruel words. She wouldn't be swayed. Today's venture had been attempting to reason with her. He is a wonderful lawyer, she is impressed by his skill, though he is not good enough to move her. 

"You're better off without me." 

"So you keep saying." 

"Then you know why I have to send you away." 

She sits on the edge of his bed, having just changed him into a fresh set of pajamas. He's propped up against the pillows, easing him off of his back to put more weight on his lower half. To prevent bedsores, Sybil had told her.  

"I know why you're _attempting_ to send me away. But unfortunately for you, your reasoning is idiotic, and so you aren't succeeding in sending me anywhere." 

"I can't marry you," he rasps. "Not now. I couldn't marry any woman."

The bruising around his eyes have faded considerably, and his colour has returned. For all his attempts to boycott eating, if the nurses were busy and he was tortured with stomach pangs, he would reluctantly allow himself to be fed by her. The frequent meals and warm environment has brought his colour back to him.

"I'm not just 'any' woman," she says pointedly. "I just want to be with you, Matthew. On any terms."

His eyes drift upward, and Mary can tell he's trying to fight back tears. "No one sane would want to be with me as I am now. Including me." His breath grows more shallow, quicker, and his eyes drift close. He begins to heave. "Oh, God, Mary. I think I'm going to be sick."

She reaches for the basin just in time, holding it under his chin and helping him sit up. He vomits, then again, emptying the contents of his stomach. 

"It's alright," she soothes, rubbing his back with firm strokes as he retches. "Oh, my darling, it's perfectly alright."

Mary helps ease him back onto the pillows, setting the basin aside and reaching for the towel she keeps nearby. She wipes away the mess on his chin and lips. 

To her surprise, he starts to laugh. She hasn't heard him laugh since long before his injury. Since he'd last stepped foot in Downton. It's a bitter sound, but a laugh none the less. 

"What is it?"

He chuckles darkly again. "I was just thinking it seems such a short time ago since I turned you down. After I proposed the first time. We could have already been married by now if I hadn't wasted so much time being proud. Now look at me. Impotent, crippled, stinking of sick. What a reversal. You have to admit, it's quite funny."

"We'll still be married." She holds up a hand when he begins to protest. "You are here and you survived the war. All of my prayers have been answered. That's enough for me. It's always been enough. Besides, after...my indiscretion...I wanted you so desperately but thought I could never have you. But you were there for me when I needed you most."

"And now I need you and you feel obligated to return the favour?" he asks bitterly. 

She rests her hand against his cheek. "No, Darling. I'm still the one who needs you. The only thing that's changed is you've given me your word. I won't let you back out now."

Mary leans in to press her lips to his clammy forehead. He looks displeased but doesn't fight her, and she pats his arm before rising, collecting the bedside items and draping the towel over the contents of the bowl. She's so distracted by the conversation that she doesn't see Isobel standing frozen in the doorway until she's halfway across the floor, a stricken look on her face. 

"You're back," Mary breathes. If anyone can soothe his heartbreak and make him see sense, it's always been Isobel. "He'll be so pleased."

Isobel, so usually steely and self-possessed, looks teary-eyed at her before glancing down at the bowl Mary carries. "You've become quite a nurse since I last saw you."

Mary shakes her head. Carrying sick bowls? She's hardly done anything. Just yesterday she'd seen a nurse pull a shard of shrapnel from a soldier's leg with a pair of tongs. "No, no. This is nothing. Sybil's the nurse in this family."

"It's the exact opposite of nothing," Isobel replies shakily. 

So accustomed to keeping her firm resolve, even she is surprised when when Isobel's words bring tears to her eyes. They share a soft, fearful smile before Mary brushes past, leaving the pair to reunite. 

Over her shoulder, she can hear Matthew's quaking voice. 

" _Mother."_


	7. Carlisle

"Lady Mary, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Mary tries to smile pleasantly, she hopes it's convincing. This was a meeting that would save her or ruin her, and the pressure of it all was astounding. 

"I'm afraid I've come under rather unpleasant circumstances. To ask a favour, as a matter of fact."

She can practically see the glee on Sir Richard's face. It gives her a dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

"You've captivated my attention, I must say. Please sit."

She does so, though instead of sitting down to listen, he remains standing, looming over her from across the desk and looking quite content to do so. 

"There's a woman who's looking to sell a story about me. A scandal. And I was hoping that there might be some way that you could...help."

"If you've come for my help, the story must be true."

"The truth of it is irrelevant. It will cause damage that I'm not prepared to deal with at present."

Carlisle raised a brow. "You want me to...what? Buy this scandal and never publish it? I think you forget that I run a business, here, not a charity."

"You would, of course, be handsomely rewarded," she replies a bit weakly.

"The only thing I'm interested in selling is papers, my dear. I'm afraid you've wasted your time in coming here."

"I thought you might say that. But the thing is, with the war still going on, a story of these sorts won't interest the public in near the same way as it might have five years ago. And I'm engaged to be married, and once that occurs, people will care much less. The longevity of the usefulness of this story isn't much. I'd likely pay more than you'd get in paper sales from it."

"Then why bother?" Carlisle asks, leaning over her, smirking. It made her skin crawl. "If no one will care, why pay a substantial sum at all?"

She sighs. "Because it will hurt my fiancé. But not in the way you might think." Mary turns her gaze to the hands in her lap. "He's well aware of the story, he doesn't care. But he's been...badly injured in the war. He'll never walk again."

That, at least, breaks some of Carlisle's smugness. "I am sorry to hear that."

She nods. "He's already threatening to free me from the engagement so I won't be trapped with him and his injury. His words, not mine. I would hate for him to think that I only wish to marry him to save myself from ruin."

"Aren't you?"

Mary tilts her chin up. She'd vowed to be demure, flattering, kind. Do nothing to get on his bad side. It's proving to be difficult. "No. I'm not. I love him very much. Very much indeed. I'd marry him regardless of any scandal. Regardless of any injury."

Sir Richard finally leans back, contemplating her. "I suppose that faithfulness might be tested."

"You'll allow me to buy the story from you, then?"

"Well, I'm not sure," he replies. "Perhaps I'll buy it and keep it in my back pocket. In case I ever need a favour in return."

This is what she's been afraid of. "Look, perhaps beggars can't be choosers, but I won't be blackmailed, I draw the line there. I've done a bit of research, and I've heard that you've been looking to purchase a proper English estate. It's terribly difficult to break into such a life with new money. Perhaps I can help."

He gives her a dangerous grin. "I see. And how do you plan to do that?"

"I have connections. People to whom I could introduce you. People who could get you into the circles you want to run in."

Carlisle smirks. "You want to be my aristocratic mentor? Couldn't I just find a wife for that?" The leer he sends her unsettles her. 

"Not your mentor. Or your wife. A...connection. A reliable source. You know all about those. Along with the money I would pay you to have the singular rights over the story, I should say that's a very generous offer."

"I don't agree," Sir Richard muses. "But I am rather swayed by your dedication to your dear, crippled fiancé."

Mary winces, but doesn't comment. She can see the conversation is drawing to a close, and moves to collect her handbag and gloves. 

"I've written down the information of the woman involved in all this. If you do decide to take me up on my offer, I hope to hear from you. If not...I suppose I'll read about it in your paper."

"I will think about it," he vows, that smug smile that unnerves her in full force. "Perhaps I'll call on you and your family. You can give me an introduction."

There's nothing she wants less. But she only smiles and nods. "Alright."

* * *

Mary braces herself against the handles of the chair. The ground is soft and wet from rain, and it takes more effort than it might normally to maneuver it across the grass. 

"I'm strong enough to wheel myself," Matthew protests, hands folded neatly in his lap. 

"I'll be the judge of that."

They're two of many injured soldiers and nurses out on the lawn this morning, enjoying the break from the week of constant rain. In the months since Matthew's injury, when he had been well enough to venture out, Mary had been there, taking him for walks in the morning and again in the evening, if the weather permits it. Matthew had resisted at first, and often still resists, but his stubbornness is no match for hers. Besides, Mary suspects he's rather desperate to get outside.

"I keep thinking about William," he says after a moment. He's been lost in a stony silence all morning, Mary is relieved that he's initiating conversation. "How he should be here. Not...exactly  _instead_ of me, but sacrifice should be rewarded. He was the brave one." 

"You were both brave," Mary assures. "And I don't think we can say 'should' about things that happen in war. It just happens. And we must live with it."

"Why is he here?" Matthew asks as they stroll, back towards Abbey and then past it, down the side of the building. 

"Who?"

He sighs. " _Sir_ Richard Carlisle. Cousin Robert wasn't pleased with a tabloid journalist at the dinner table."

She isn't pleased with his presence here, either. Instead of making her feel more secure about the scandal, she feels the threat of him looming over her constantly, and his insistence on visiting Downton has hung it above her head like the sword of Damocles, ready to strike her at any moment. 

"I met him in London a year ago, as I said. When I took the train down last weekend we ran into one another again. He's looking for estates in the area, I told him he could stay here while he looked. Haxby Park is for sale, they're giving up. When Billy died, it knocked the stuffing out of them completely."

"How terribly sad," Matthew responds. She can tell that he means it. "I am sorry for them. Though I suppose their loss is _Sir_ Richard's gain?"

"You always say his name with such destain."

"He's obviously after you."

She can feel the smile form on her lips, though she tries to keep the amusement out of her voice. "Don't be silly. He knows I'm engaged."

"You're not engaged."

"You've proposed, I've accepted. What would you like to call it?"

Matthew huffs. "Can we...stop? I'd much rather see your face when we talk." 

Mary steers him over to a nearby bench near the Abbey, parking the chair and then sitting at his side. She wants to reach for his hand, but he's strong enough now that he'll pull away. 

"So, will he buy it?"

She shrugs, clasping her hands in her lap. "He was quite impressed with Carson, at any rate. Wants to steal him away to run it for him."

"Your Papa will throw a fit if he hears that," Matthew muses. 

"Well, suppose he offers Carson far more money?" Mary replies.

Matthew gives her a pointed look. "Seeing as Carson would open his veins for you, I don't think there's much doubt of him staying where he is."

Mary smiles. She is terribly fond of Carson, and couldn't imagine his leaving, especially not for a tabloid journalist. But it's pleasing to hear someone else say it, as well. 

"I wish you'd stop telling people we are engaged."

"We  _are_ engaged." 

"Mary," he sighs, exasperated. "I mean it. You need to stop this, or I'll...jump into the nearest river."

"And how would you manage that without my help?"

The corner of his mouth twitches into a dark smile. "Well, I'd get you to push me in."

Despite the black humour, she can't help but smile herself as he presses his lips together, though his mood falls back to contemplative.

"I can't relax here, Mary, knowing you'll never have a real life with me. I wish you would see that."

"You don't mean that."

"But I do. I have nothing to give and nothing to share. If you don't stop insisting that we marry, I won't let you anywhere near me."

She rolls her eyes. It's a cycle they've repeated over and over and over again. She's in an endless loop of dismissing him, comforting him, or scolding him. It's exhausting, but she isn't sure what else to do.

"Well, plenty of those of our station barely see one another. If you insist on staying away from me, we'll be just like any other married couple."

"Mary-"

"Enough, Matthew," she snaps. Between the heavy weight of scandal over her head, her fears for Matthew's health, and Sir Richard's intimidating presence, she's losing her patience, and quickly. She isn't sure if she can continue to bear the weight of it all alone any longer. The feeling that she must tell her family, warn them if she suspects Carlisle will publish, has been gnawing at her for days, as well. She thinks she might go mad with it all. 

Matthew looks down at his lap, chastised. "Your parents are going to have a fight on their hands in due course, I'm afraid," he redirects. "Mother wants to convince them to keep Downton open as a centre of recovery once the war is over."

"Does she? Granny shudders from the Dowager House whenever those words are spoken, I'm sure."

"I suppose there are going to be nurses and cripples living there for the foreseeable future, they might as well have more nurses and cripples."

She debates whether or not she has the energy to scold him for his self-deprecating comment. 

"I know it's an ideal place for a recovery centre, but it's also a home. Our home. I hope Cousin Isobel won't be too upset if she doesn't win the case."

"I'm sure she already knows she won't win her case, though she'll fight to the bitter end all the same."

Mary smiles. "With such noble intentions, I'm sure no one will resent her for it."

"Are you?"

She smiles again and then looks to him. His bruises and cuts have healed, his hair is clean and combed, and he's well-dressed in his uniform. Her heart skips at the sight of him. 

"My parents won't. Granny? She's unpredictable as they come. I shouldn't pretend to know what she'll say." Mary watches him smile and duck his head to laugh, the same way she has seen him do thousands of times, more and more frequently than he had after his injury. "I love you so desperately, I hope you know that. We should go back inside before they think I've run off to Gretna Green with you."

"Please stop," he pleads. 

"I won't. You know I won't." She reaches out to touch his cheek and he turns away. "Please stop," she repeats back to him, before leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. He doesn't respond, but he doesn't jerk away. It's something. 

* * *

  _"Oh God!"_

Mary startles awake. She's gotten used to the tortured screams of soldiers at night, relieving their battles in their dreams, but this wasn't an echoing sound on the other side of the house. 

_"Oh, God, no! No no no!"_

This was closer, right below the bedrooms, as if it was coming up through the floorboards. 

Matthew's room. 

She throws the covers off of herself and flies to the door. Papa is just stumbling out of his room, rubbing at his eyes, Mama groggy behind him, and Edith is peering from behind her door, but Mary is off like a shot, her bare feet pounding against the carpet on the stairs. 

_"No! God help me!"_

Without the use of his legs, one of the rooms on the main floor has been converted into a bedroom for him to save the trip up the stairs. It's not an impressively furnished bedroom, they've stolen furniture from all over, but it's better than the cots at the hospital, and he's given some privacy. 

Without bothering to knock, Mary throws the door open and is at his bedside in a moment. Matthew is soaked in sweat, and he tosses fitfully, moaning and crying out. 

"No! No, no! Please!"

"Matthew," she cries. She fears to restrain him, to make him panic more and lash out at her. Avoiding his clawing hands, she places both hands on the side of his face. "Matthew, Darling, it's me. It's Mary. I'm here. You're here. You're safe." 

"Mary," Robert says from the doorway, still tying the belt of his dressing gown. "He might hurt you, step away."

"Matthew!" It's a few more agonizing moments before he gasps awake, violently jerking and nearly throwing her off of him in the process. His eyes are wild and his breathing erratic. 

"Matthew?" She doesn't reach for him or do anything to startle him, instead sitting gingerly against on the edge of his mattress. "Matthew, it's Mary. It's alright. You're safe. You're at Downton. I'm here, Darling." 

His breathing grows more shallow, quicker, until he dissolves into helpless sobs. "Mary."

She does reach for him, then, wrapping her arms around his back to help him remain upright. He grabs fistfuls of her thin night-gown and curls forward into her arms. 

"It's alright, Darling. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe, you're at Downton. No one is going to hurt you." She repeats whatever she has heard the nurses say to reassure the men at the hospital who awaken with similar terrors, holding onto Matthew tightly and rocking him soothingly, feeling tears in her own eyes, though she batters them down. Now wasn't the time. 

Matthew seems to spot the crowd in the doorway, watching him, and he makes a low sound of agony, turning his face away in shame. "F...forgive me."

Mary glances over her shoulder. "Just...leave us. Please."

Robert looks between them, alone in bed together. "Mary, maybe someone should-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, what could we possibly do?"

A rather cruel twist of fate, that his injury had eliminated any need for a chaperone, though in doing so had allowed them ample time alone together. Robert nods and reaches out for the doorknob, shutting them into the bedroom. 

Mary is left with Matthew weeping into her arms. Not for the first time, she feels entirely helpless. Yet again, she's forced to fight back tears. What right did she have, with all he had suffered? 

* * *

"I'm heading back to London," Sir Richard informs her in the corridor, taking her arm to stop her as she passes. Mary resists the urge to pry his fingers from her sleeve. 

"Oh? I hope nothing's wrong."

"A small emergency at work. Nothing to concern yourself with."

She refrains from saying she wasn't in the least concerned. "Of course. I do hope your time here has been productive. With the war going on, you aren't getting a full view of our ways, but then again, who knows what our lives will look like when it's all over?"

"It was perfectly all right," he assures. "I just haven't yet decided what I'm going to do about Vera Bates' testimony. She was terribly upset that I'd cheated her out of a story." 

She hates herself for visibly tensing and giving herself away. She knew, of course, it wouldn't be so easy to win his silence. "Well, I hope you decide soon."

"I'm not a man of your people. I don't care so much for propriety and uptightness. Or scandal. If this comes out, I certainly wouldn't turn you away."

She isn't sure if this is meant as a threat or a compliment, but the way he stares unblinkingly into her eyes unnerves her. "I'm flattered," she manages, "really I am. And maybe, in another lifetime, we might have made a go of it. But Matthew is the love of my life. If I can't be with him I don't want to be with anyone."

Sir Richard doesn't smile, exactly, but he does seem rather amused. "I do hope he appreciates your loyalty. Especially in his condition." 

She recoils, though his fingers still hold her arm firmly. "I'm sure that I don't know what you mean."

"Is everything alright?"

She and Richard turn to see Matthew at the end of the corridor, hands still on the large wheels of his chair as he pushes himself forward.

Sir Richard releases her and she takes an instinctive step back. 

"Everything's fine," he says at last. "Lady Mary and I were discussing Haxby. I'm not convinced it's the right place for me." 

Matthew nods, but says nothing else, just staring. She thinks the two of them are going to wait there forever in a stand-off of ridiculous masculine will, but Matthew breaks the tension by glancing over to Mary. 

"I was hoping that you might help me in the library," he says. "I've gone through the books I've borrowed."

"Of course, Darling," she says, brushing past Carlisle to go to Matthew's side. "Sir Richard, safe travels back to London. I do hope there's not too much of a disaster waiting for you upon your return."

He remains rooted in place, hands clasped behind his back. "Oh, I'll figure it out. I always do."

Mary walks beside Matthew as he rolls himself across the entryway and into the library. He doesn't have to tell her to close the door behind her. 

"Did he hurt you?"

"Oh Matthew," she sighs, wiping her clammy hands nervously on her skirt before taking the books Matthew has balanced on his lap. She checks the spines, reaching up to put them back properly. Mary desperately hopes her nonchalant tone disguises how shaken she is. Sir Richard's presence here has given her no comfort to the resolve of her scandal. Perhaps that last interaction has put her more at risk than ever. Now, it seems, is the time to confess to Papa, to prepare them for the news. It's a thought she's been desperately trying to avoid, but now it seems inevitable. "It's nothing. He's not like us, he doesn't know what's proper and what's not."

"He's a grown man, he knows what's an inappropriate way to touch a woman," Matthew protests. "I know it wasn't nothing. I heard him. He made a play for you."

"And I rebuffed him." 

"I asked you to stop talking to people as though we're still together."

"Oh honestly, Matthew. You cannot possibly be possessive and jealous and in the same breath push me away from you," she cries, exasperated. She won't look at him. 

He doesn't speak for some time. "I'm not jealous."

"Except that you felt the need to get me away from him and then rant about his inappropriate touches." 

"I would have protested that behaviour towards any woman. A perfect stranger, even."

Mary finally turns on him. "Is that what I am to you, now? Just  _some_ woman?"

He closes his eyes in frustration, and she wants to snap that he has no right to be frustrated. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Do I?"

The door swings open, and Robert starts at the sight of Mary and Matthew glaring at one another from across the room. 

"Have I interrupted something?"

"Not at all, Papa," Mary replies, turning her attention to the ledger to sign off on Matthew's books. "We're merely returning some borrowed items. Do you need something?"

Robert looks rather preoccupied. He pats his pockets as though looking for something, but doesn't seem concerned by their contents. Distracted. Nervous. "No, no. I just...was that Carlisle I saw ordering a car?"

Mary nods. "There's an emergency at his work in London, apparently, he has to rush off."

"Right. Well, it's probably for the best. There's a matter we need to discuss after dinner. A family affair. Cousin Isobel's confirmed that she'll come, and Granny."

Mary glances at Robert and then Matthew, though he seems just as bewildered as her. "What is it? I hope it isn't anything terrible."

Robert purses his lips. "We'll discuss it after dinner. 

* * *

"I'll get straight to the point," Robert says as he closes the doors behind him, barricading them all in the small library. Edith stands beside him, looking very much included while the rest of them, Mama, Granny, Sybil, Matthew, and Isobel, look as concerned as she herself must. "We have a patient who has been badly burn who goes by the name of Patrick Gordon, but he claims to be Patrick Crawley."

It's like a punch to the gut. Matthew's reaction is minute, but Mary watches his face flicker with emotion. 

"But I thought he was dead," Isobel says at last. "Didn't he drown in the Titanic?"

Robert sighs, uneasy as he begins to pace the room. "Well, of course, it's what we all though until now."

"They never found a body," Edith protests at their disbelieving faces.

"They never found lots of bodies," Mary snaps in return. "It's ridiculous! How can it be true? Where's he been hiding for the last six years?"

"In Canada," Edith sniffs. "Suffering from amnesia."

Robert stills again, his hand clenching the winged back of Granny's chair. "He does have a story that would explain it. I'm not quite sure how to test the facts."

"He knows all sorts of things that only Patrick, or someone very close to him, would know," Edith pipes again. 

"What a stupid thing to say," Mary accuses, watching as Matthew visibly shrinks across the room. He may be unable to walk, but at least his future life and comfort had been secure with his inheritance. How he must be fearful at the thought of trying to make ends meet for himself and his mother without an income. Mary persists. "Any fortune teller at a fair comes up with a dozen details he 'couldn't possibly know.'"

"There's no need to be angry," Cora interjects. "This young man is either Patrick or he's not. There must be a way to find out. Is he like Patrick to look at?"

"He isn't like anything to look at."

Despair settles like dust over the room. "I've sent his account up to George Murray in London to ask for his advice."

Mary feels fury boil within her. "What a waste of time and money."

"What's the matter?" Edith flouts. "We were all so fond of Patrick!" She turns on Mary accusingly. "You were going to marry him, for heaven's sake. Aren't you glad if he survived?"

"To displace Matthew as heir?" Mary scoffs. "Certainly not. This man is a fake and an imposter, and I think it's a cruel trick to play when Matthew's been through so much." 

"To displace Matthew as heir or you as Countess?" Edith retorts. "How cruel to wish death upon poor Patrick just to maintain your own position!"

" _Edith!"_

"It's alright, Mama," Mary replies coldly, though she's unnerved by Matthew's increasingly furious expression. "She's been saying idiotic things all night, though I didn't realize she had this far further to sink. I don't wish death upon anyone. I  _can't_ wish death upon anyone who's already dead, and Patrick is dead. We know it."

"My dear," Matthew says quietly, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. "Don't be so quick to decide. You never know, this might be a blessing in disguise."

"What do you mean?" Isobel asks, looking rather overwhelmed herself. 

"Well, he seems like a nice enough chap," Matthew drawls, the bitterness ringing through his voice. "He's not pretty, of course, but he can walk around the estate on his own two legs and sire a string of songs to continue the line. All in all, I'd say that's a great improvement on your current heir and fiancé."

He says it all quickly, in one long breath that gets darker and darker as he goes, his gaze fixing itself on the floor in front of him. He might burn a hole in that carpet if he stares any more intently. 

Mary rises abruptly. "That is enough!" she cries. "We can't possibly concern ourselves with some fraud because Edith fancies herself in love with him!"

"You're just-"

"No!" she spits, and then takes a breath to compose herself. "Papa can investigate, and he's doing just that. And when we hear word that this Patrick Gordon is a fake, we can brush it off with the contempt it deserves. Until then, nothing changes. We treat him no differently. The burden of proof lies on him, not us. Matthew is the heir unless this Patrick nobody can definitively prove himself to be who he says he is."

"But I suppose we won't have a wedding until you know for certain where the inheritance lies," Edith taunts. "Unless the wedding date is secure and the groom is just replaced."

Mary's blood runs cold. The two of them usually try to keep it to half-hearted barbs and glancing blows, at least in front of company, but Edith has aimed to cut deep, and Mary won't hold back. "How dare you? I would marry Matthew tomorrow. I would follow him into the gutter if it came to it. If this fraud miraculously turns out to be Patrick, I will fall to my knees in my new church in Manchester and thank the Lord that I met and married Matthew instead of being stuck with Patrick and  _you_ for the rest of my existence!" 

Her impassioned speech has stunned the room, which Mary self-consciously must admit is a reflection on her character if they are all so very shocked to hear that she's set on marrying Matthew, even under these circumstances. Matthew's eyes are red, but his expression is still stormy, and his gaze remains fixed on some imaginary spot on the rug. 

"Well," Granny sniffs after a long moment of uneasy silence. "Let us be glad Sir Richard is not here to partake in this scandal. We'd make him a fortune, I'm sure, should he have the chance to publish _this_."

Mary sinks back down into her seat, feeling light-headed. In the dread of anticipation over dinner for what this news could be, she had forgotten all about Carlisle. "If we're sharing bad news...I think I should get my own over with, as well."

"About Sir Richard?" Robert asks after a long moment. 

She nods. "In a way. There were...rumours...floating around London about me before the war-"

"Mary," Cora cuts in sharply. 

"Please, Mama," Mary pleads, "it's better they hear it from me. They were saying that...Kemal Pamuk, the Turk that died here...they were saying that he didn't die in his own room, but rather...in my bed. Carlisle has bought the story from a source who has drudged it up again and though I've offered to pay, he has yet to sell me the rights. I was hoping to dissuade him, but I'm afraid that he very well might publish the story. I'd rather you heard it from me than from the morning paper."

If Robert was distressed before, he's pale as a ghost, now. Mary's solemn tone leaves no room for dismissal. He turns to Cora, her guilty expression a telling one. "You knew about this?" And then, apologetically, "Matthew-"

"Matthew knows, Papa," Mary interrupts. "Right before he proposed. It was why I was too afraid to accept his proposal the first time. I couldn't tie myself to him without confessing the truth, and I was too afraid to confess at the time."

She watches Robert's eyes dart around the room, from Matthew's unwavering glare downwards to Isobel's sympathetic expression. "So I was the only one kept in the dark?"

"Granny didn't know," Mary replies lightly, trying desperately to pull herself together and appear composed. "Nor did Sybil. Edith obviously knows, she was the one to telephone the Turkish ambassador to spread the scandal in the first place."

It springs from her mouth before she can stop it, but after Edith's stunt this evening, she isn't sorry to see the look of betrayal in her eyes or the tears that spring forth when the room all turns to her with horrified expressions. 

"With the war on," Mary says at last, "the scandal will be over sooner than it otherwise would have been. Once Matthew and I are married, people will care even less. I know you're all terribly disappointed in me, but I thought warning you in advance in case it makes the presses for tomorrow was preferable."

It's as though the very air is dense and suffocating, and they all are forced to sit through the heavy, horrid revelations that this evening has brought. 

It's Matthew dark, humourless laugh that breaks the silence, and it's so terribly cold that it sends a shiver down Mary's spine. 

"I suppose it explains a great deal," he finally says. "I couldn't put the pieces together, why you refused to even consider breaking off the engagement. Your parents were desperate for it, I tried to end it, again and again. And you were deaf to it all. I thought it was just the earldom and Downton, but without me, you fear ruin with the resurrection of this story. Even a titleless cripple is better than nothing, I suppose."

It's so unlike him, Mary would never have believed that he could even utter such words if she hadn't watched as he spoke them. He looks surprised himself, as though he had suddenly broken through the increasingly thick cloud of bitterness and despair that had been building for days, the last few minutes. 

"Mary-" he starts. 

"I have dedicated the last months of my life to your care," she says through gritted teeth, the weight of Matthew's injuries and Sir Richard's blackmail and the impending scandal and her fiancé's constant attempts to dismiss her boiling over the walls of her ever-sturdy facade. She is broken. "I have told you again and again that I want you, with or without your inheritance, regardless your injury. I have assured you of my love again and again. I have kept this secret from you, bore it alone and gone into the lion's den to try to quash this scandal in order to save you from any more pain or worry. And you have the gall to not only accuse me of being a grubby little gold-digger but to ridicule me for my dedication. You've got a nerve! How glad you must be to be spared from having to give up your fiancée in order to martyr yourself. How terribly relieved you must feel not to have to concern yourself with my future now that I am not only a  _slut_ but one that has been found out."

Granny may have looked slightly startled by the news of Pamuk but she is properly scandalized by Mary's language. Even Mama cries ' _Mary!'_ in shock and horror. She ignores it all, rising again in determination. To spin on her heel would undoubtedly mean to be caught by Papa and physically stopped in her tracks, and so she takes the only available option. She strides determinedly towards the door in front of her, knocking shoulders with Edith without so much as slowing down.

"Mary," Matthew rasps, reaching across to grab her hand as she passes, but she tears violently out of his grasp, not sparing him a look as she storms from the room. 


	8. Burnout

"You've had a telephone call, M'lady," Mead informs her as he helps her out of her coat. It's the same thing he says nearly every day when she steps into the entryway at Aunt Rosamund's London home. 

"From Mr. Crawley, again?"

"Yes, M'lady."

Since the disastrous blow-up after dinner, Mary had been fielding calls from home. She'd woken up at dawn the morning afterwards, having already packed her bag, and slipped out the before anyone could stop her, going round to the servant's hall herself and ringing the bell to have Branson fetched. Aunt Rosamund, thankfully, was home during her sudden appearance in London, and hadn't been put-out by her failure to call in advance. 

"Thank you, Mead. Did you tell him I was out?"

"I did, M'lady. Shall I continue to do so, even if you are here?"

"Please, Mead." 

"You've also received letters. Should you like to read them now, or shall I put them upstairs in your room?"

"I'll take them now, thank you. I'm going up there, anyways."

From Sybil again, no doubt, and perhaps Mama. Or Granny. Or Matthew again, the letters were more unpredictable than the telephone calls. She hasn't opened any of them, she supposes it doesn't matter. She doesn't mean to make them worry, she really doesn't, but she's empty. Between expending all of her energy on the care of Matthew and having him rebuff her again and again, keeping the secret of Pamuk in light of the new circumstances, in staying under the same roof as the very man threatening to expose her... She feels completely and entirely empty.

She's spent her days wandering around the city, visiting galleries and museums that she cares little about, dining out or in with Aunt Rosamund, depending on the day. 

"If any of them want to come and stay at the house, I won't turn them away," Aunt Rosamund has warned. "They want to give you your space, but I suspect after enough time has passed they'll lose patience."

"I'm not ready to face anyone, yet."

"Well, when you are," she assures, "my door is always open."

They stay in tonight, and have just poured drinks in the drawing room when Mead enters. "Lady Mary, Mrs. Isobel Crawley is on the telephone. I've informed her that you are out, but she has insisted upon staying on the line until you return. What shall I tell her?"

There was no question as to where Matthew had gotten his stubbornness from. Cousin Isobel will stay on the line all night if she must. She looks to Aunt Rosamund, who merely shrugs at her. 

Mary sighs and rises to her feet, setting her glass aside. She follows Mead out into the corridor, where the receiver sits upright on the table. She steels herself before picking it up, trying to sound brisk. 

"Cousin Isobel, I'm afraid I'm not able to-"

"Matthew isn't here," she says quickly, knocking the wind out of Mary's sails. Oh. "I'm actually going to be in London on Thursday to tie up some loose strings with the Red Cross. I had to leave in such a hurry after Matthew's injury, and I haven't had to chance to return. Anyway, I was hoping that since I'll be in town that night, you might allow me to meet with you for dinner."

Mary is silent for a long moment. Cousin Isobel has already been so generous towards her, but she cannot truly be neutral, not with Matthew as her son. It makes her unpredictable, and Mary isn't sure she's able to handle the anticipation of what Isobel might say. Then again, Isobel has been her biggest ally of late. 

"Mary? I'm coming alone, if that's your concern."

She exhales. "Yes, I can meet for dinner on Thursday. Where are you staying?"

"Near Charing Cross, it's not terribly far from you."

"Nonsense, you can stay here with Aunt Rosamund." 

"Are you sure she won't mind?"

"Not at all. She's given me her approval in advance."

"That's very kind of her. My meeting isn't until Friday morning, so I'll take the late train down, just in time for dinner. Is that alright?"

"Perfectly alright," Mary replies. "I'll see you Thursday for dinner. I'll make a reservation."

* * *

Isobel, to Mary's relief, does come alone. She hadn't thought that she would lie, but Mary takes the task of reserving a table for two to avoid any surprises. 

"Will it take long, your meeting tomorrow?" Mary asks once they're seated. 

"I shouldn't think so," Isobel says with an easy smile. "With the end of the war seemingly inevitable, the Red Cross isn't as desperately in need of volunteers. Under the circumstances, I think they'll understand."

"Of course," Mary acknowledges. They fall into an uneasy silence, or at least it feels uneasy to Mary. "I'm sure they appreciate your help at the recovery centre at Downton. And the hospital."

"I'm sure I've already overstepped," Isobel replies. "But I am trying to lend a hand. Especially when I'm already at Downton so much visiting Matthew." 

She nods again. The weight of what's not being said is so great that Mary is spurred to speak. "I apologize if I've left a mess behind. I should have...I'm not sure, if I'm being honest, what I should have done. I just couldn't bear to stay."

Isobel gives her a tight-lipped smile. "I'm very glad that you did. I don't mean to say I was eager for you to go, but I think you've needed this. For all you claim to not be a nurse, you have been Matthew's primary caregiver since is injury. And that is a draining job. You get exhausted, emotionally and physically. It's something many, many nurses experience. You're so used to caring for others that your own needs are neglected. Between that and arguing with Matthew and having to worry about Carlisle...You need time to recover. To think about yourself. I'm not sure how you even made it this long."

Mary, to her embarrassment, feels her eyes well with tears, and she rapidly blinks that back. She could only think of how unwelcome she must be at Downton when she returned, how angry they all would be to see her. "You must be the only one feeling so generous towards me."

Isobel reaches across the table to pat her hand. "Now I know for certain you're a nurse. You feel guilt-ridden whenever you do take some time to yourself," she teases lightly. "I think everyone at home is terribly concerned about you and your well-being. You've suffered so very much, Mary. Just because others are suffering, too, doesn't invalidate your own difficulties."

"I feel like it should. What right do I have to complain when Matthew will never walk again? When there are soldiers downstairs without arms, who have gone blind, who are irreparably scarred? I'm sure they would happily endure a damaged reputation and if it meant they could be healed."

"But this isn't just a damaged reputation," Isobel replies. "It's the possibility that your future might be bleak. That's what you're afraid of, and it's what they're afraid of, too. Perhaps it isn't equivalent, but not all suffering is equivalent. If we can only feel sympathy for the one who has suffered the most, not even those men would qualify. There's always someone who has it worse."

Mary squeezes Isobel's hand before pulling away. "At least Matthew is pleased by my absence. He's only spent these last months trying to chase me away, and he's finally succeeded."

"Oh, I think Matthew is the exact opposite of pleased. He's been wretched since you left, and I can't say that he doesn't deserve it."

Bless Cousin Isobel and her no-nonsense approach. "Probably sick with concern that it wasn't enough that I'll return."

"I think he's rather sick with concern that you won't."

Mary swallows. "But isn't that what he wanted? He must feel guilty for what he said, but not that it drove me away."

"What he said was truly awful, Mary. And he knows it. He is suffering very much, and this business with the reappearance of Patrick has only made things worse, but he took out his anger and frustration on you and abused you terribly. He has been taking it all out on you since the injury. He had no right to say such horrible things, and I wish I could apologize for him." 

"Nobody needs to apologize for him. I've said my fair share of regrettable things, I should hate to think someone felt they must apologize for me," she replies. "If I thought...if I thought that he truly didn't want me around, that he was better off without me, I shouldn't insist on being with him. But I know he's determined to play the martyr and it's infuriating. No one can believe that I know my own mind. I'll take him with his injury, without his inheritance. We've been through too much to throw it all away now."

It's Isobel's turn to look teary-eyed. "I do hope you understand how very much it means to me to see you so dedicated to Matthew. Your loyalty to him has been tested, time and time again, and your only annoyance is when he attempts to relieve you. It's downright noble, Mary. I can think of no one better for him."

"You might want to save your words. It seems as though he's determined to put me off. I can't drag him up the wedding aisle. I'm tired of...of fighting with him. Nothing I can do is enough to prove to him that I want to be with him. On any terms."

"I wish I could give you some advice, my dear, to get through to him. All I can say is focus on yourself for now. Think about your future, what you truly want for your life. Let yourself be selfish. Matthew can be wretched for a little while, this is your time. Perhaps he has some thinking to do, as well. And when you've made that decision, when you're ready to face it all again, you can return refreshed and confident that you'll not have any regrets." 

Mary can't help it, she reaches across the table to squeeze Isobel's hand again. She should very much like to call this woman her mother. "Thank you, Cousin Isobel."

* * *

It takes ten days for her to even open the letters that have been sent to her. Mary still refuses to answer the telephone, and Matthew's attempts to reach her have waned from twice a day to only once in the morning. 

Sybil writes the most, expressing her concern for love for Mary, her insistence that no one at home is angry with her, and her feminine solidarity that men make mistakes all their lives and aren't ruined, therefore she shouldn't give any thought to what other people might think, either.

Mary writes only a single letter, to Granny to apologize for shocking her, and when she arrives back in Belgrave Square for dinner a few days later, Aunt Rosamond informs her that Granny has telephoned to say that she is far more worldly than anyone gave her credit for and that her concern is with her granddaughter alone. 

She's in London twelve days when Carlisle's secretary telephones to book an appointment. Mary is sure his office must have contacted Downton first, and she wonders what their reaction must have been. But the secretary gives no indication that anything untoward has happened, and so Mary arrives at two o'clock in the afternoon, and is herded into his office fifteen minutes after their appointment time. 

"You're not staying at Downton," is the first thing he says when she steps in the door. "Trouble in paradise?"

Mary had been desperate and afraid when she had last come here, she isn't any longer. "I merely came to visit my Aunt Rosamund. Matthew is fine, he telephones the house every day."

Technically it was true, though she wasn't about to go into details. 

She refuses to nervously offer up information when he falls into his usual intense silence, and finally he is the one to break it, reaching into his desk to procure a few pieces of paper, rotating them to face her and sliding it across the desk. 

"What's this?"

"A contract. To sell you the rights to the story."

Mary pulls off her gloves, trying to keep her hands from shaking. "What made you change your mind?"

"Is it so hard to believe that I might just be doing the gentlemanly thing?"

"A little," Mary admits, though she smiles at him. 

"Truth be told, I've met someone. A young widower. Her family has just invited me to go shooting at their estate in Scotland."

"Shooting? I wasn't aware that people still carried on shooting after the war started."

Sir Richard shrugs. "They're quite...traditional, in that way."

Ah. "Traditional. And so you need my advice," Mary finishes, relieved. "How long have you known her?"

"Since April," he replies, driving onwards at her furrowing brow. "She isn't the daughter of an  _earl._ I wasn't sure things would progress any farther with her and so I made my presence known at Downton. Luckily, it seems as though everything is forging ahead. So I'm afraid I won't be stationed at Haxby Park in the near future."

It seems quite scheming and disingenuous, but better this woman than Mary, she thinks to herself, turning her attention to the contract. She reads it over, then again, and again. 

"It isn't a trick," he vows, but she reads it through once more before signing, her own copy as well as his, and then tucks the contract into her handbag, feeling lighter than she's felt in months. 

"And the original contract? I should have possession of that, in case any threats arise."

"I doubt much of anything will arise."

Mary raises a brow, and Carlisle looks surprised, an expression she isn't sure she's ever seen on him. 

"You haven't heard? Vera Bates is no more. Found dead on her own kitchen floor."

She does so hate to be at his mercy, but the information is too startling to feign nonchalance. "My God. No, I hadn't heard." 

"For the bearer of your potential scandal, I should have thought you'd keep an ear to the ground for news of her."

"I've been rather distracted of late." Poor Bates, having to deal with this now. Poor Anna! Though perhaps things would settle and improve without Mrs. Bates' presence. She isn't sure what to think. Carlisle is looking at her with a bored and expectant expression, and she shakes her head to clear it. "Right. Give me the address of your tailor, I'll have a list sent of things you'll need." 

"A list?" he repeats. "It's only for a week." 

Now that they're on equal terms once again, she isn't too fearful to wear on his ego. "Perhaps you have some of them already, but this isn't London. You'll need tweed, heavy enough for shooting, and something light enough to go walking. White tie attire, black tie attire, gloves, a heavy overcoat, proper boots..." 

He grunts. "The list is necessary, then."

"You likely won't need it all for just a week, but a gentleman is prepared. Especially when meeting the traditionally-valued family of a woman he may wish to marry. If you have any other questions, you know where I'll be."

She gathers her things, offering the first genuine smile she has ever truly given to Carlisle. "Thank you for this, I mean it. And I promise that I will hold up my end of the bargain, you needn't worry. I do wish you the best of luck, I hope you know."

"And I you," he says in return. 

* * *

She's gone fifteen days in total from Downton.

Mary doesn't warn anyone in advance, besides telephoning Isobel to let her know. She's absent from the house, but Molesley promises to relay the message. 

Carson goes a bit wide-eyed as she steps out of the car, and she hopes she sees relief on his face. 

"I hope you've held the place together after the mess I left, Carson," she muses, turning once they've stepped inside so he can help her with her coat. 

"Indeed, M'lady, but you are a sight for sore eyes."

The library doors behind her open, and Robert appears, eyes settling on her and then heaving a sigh. "I thought I heard your voice."

"I hope you're not disappointed to see me," she says in response, keeping the humour pointedly in her voice. If she's come back to chaos, she's determined to walk back into it with the composure she's rebuilt over the last two weeks. 

She heads the unspoken request to join him, and Mary follows Robert into the library, letting him close the doors behind them. 

"How are you?" he says at last, looking terribly concerned. "You've caused us all a great deal of concern."

"I know Aunt Rosamund was keeping you updated, you can't have been too concerned" she replies. "You know I didn't intend to worry you. It all just got to be...too much. I had to leave for my own sanity. I do hope you understand."

Robert sighs. He still looks terribly displeased, though she suspects it may be more of her lack of communication than her disappearance in general. "Of course I do," he says at last. "We've been so concerned caring for everyone else that we've neglected you. You bear it all with such a casual nature we forgot that you were suffering." 

She swallows a bit thickly, breaking his gaze to stare at her shoes. "How disappointed you must be in me. After-"

"Finding out about Mr. Pamuk?" he finishes. "You chose your moment well. Or terribly, I'm not sure which. But to see how much you've been suffering for it... Don't put yourself at the mercy of a man like Carlisle. We may be a house of scandal, but we'll be one anyway with Mrs. Bates' death. We'll get through it."

"We won't have to," she assures him, producing the contract from the handbag she has kept tucked by her side. "He allowed me to pay him off for the exclusive rights. If he breathes one word of it we can get lawyers involved, he won't risk that of notoriety. Especially not when he's trying to establish himself."

Robert snorts at the thought, but takes the paper from her hands. "I can't say that I'm not relieved." 

"I thought you would be," she says. "Had I known he was going to do this, I wouldn't have told everyone. I didn't mean to upstage the Patrick chaos, I just wanted to warn you all. I do hope...I do hope you'll forgive me, Papa. For all of it."

"I know," Robert replies. "And I do forgive you. Once I might have been more affected, but I've been through a war since then and have had a few weeks to get used to the idea. I'm just glad the imminent threat is over. Gossip may come and go, but at least that can be brushed off." 

He brandishes the contract pointedly before tucking it into his desk, locking the contents securely. 

"I know it's none of my business, but I am wondering what you intend to do about Matthew. Are you hoping to avoid him for the time-being?"

Mary sighs. "There's no point. We'll have to eat at the same table, we might as well face it all now."

Robert gives her a pitying look. "Will you break with him?"

"I don't want to," she says honestly. "But I won't be abused and pulled around any longer. I would marry him tomorrow, despite everything. If that doesn't prove I know my own mind and he still insists on inflicting misery onto me..."

"You did mean it, then?" Robert says, studying her. "Even if Matthew loses his inheritance, even if you cannot have children."

"It would hurt me to leave Downton. Very, very badly. But I can't see any happiness at all in a future without Matthew."

Robert sighs and Mary is pulled into his arms. He presses a kiss against her forehead. "If it helps, he's been absolutely wretched since you left. Almost inconsolable."

She smiles against his shoulder. "Isobel said the same thing. It certainly helps a little."

"I can't say that he doesn't deserve it, after what he said," Robert muses, letting her go with a soft smile. 

"Isobel said that, too. Do you think we could commandeer the small library? As much as it would satisfy me to show up unexpectedly to dinner and make him squirm, I think we should talk this through. I can't bear dragging it out any longer."

* * *

She does make him wait, in the end. She goes upstairs to change out of her traveling clothes, careful to be very precise. If Matthew makes a break of it, she'd rather show him what he'll be missing. 

When she arrives back downstairs, not in any hurry, the small library has been cleared out and only Matthew sits there, his wheelchair positioned across from the sofa. He looks up when she enters, a tortured expression on his face. 

She doesn't speak at first, just takes her time to close the door of the library behind her and cross the floor to take a seat in front of him. His breathing is heavy and his eyes wet. If she were a better person, she likely wouldn't feel the thrill of satisfaction that he was suffering in her absence after he'd spent so long trying to chase her away. 

"Mary," he begins, voice hoarse with emotion. "I...I can't even begin to find the words I would need to properly apologize. What I said is...unforgivable. It was no comment on your virtue or...or anything other than my own misery."

"I know," she says simply. 

"It was disgusting, what I said. Utterly despicable. I've been sick about it from the moment I said it. I know I've deserved your silence and distance, but I've been completely wretched."

"I know."

"You must despise me. Do you despise me?"

Mary sighs. "I'm a bit confused, Matthew. I thought this is exactly what you wanted. To chase me away."

"Not...not by means of humiliation and insult." 

"So you've apologized. Is now the right time to leave and never speak to you again, by your wish?"

He doesn't answer immediately, just staring down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "I've missed you terribly. I've spent the last few months abusing you in an abhorrent manner and then I woke up and you were gone and I was...terrified."

"I was terrified, Matthew, when I heard that you had been severely injured. I thought I would never see you again. And then you were back, you were safe, but before I could even feel relief you rebuffed me, rejected me. I wasn't even given a choice. Do you think me so pathetic that I'm incapable of making decisions for myself? Is that the woman you thought you proposed to?"

"Of course not," he insists. "Of course not. I was just...you didn't know what you were signing on for, Mary. How could you? The thought of just being stuck with myself for the next fifty years was enough to make me what to leap from a bridge, how could I trap you as well in this misery?"

"And in the months afterwards? When I helped feed you, changed your clothes, assisted with your exercises, massaged your shoulders when you were sore? I think I had quite a good idea of what marriage to you would be like."

"What you offered to do for me was honourable," he insists. "And I loved you so, so much for staying by my side. But I didn't want that life for you. I was-"

"You were trying to be a martyr," she snaps. "You didn't care about my feelings towards you, you only cared about yourself and your own guilt. This wasn't about me, hasn't been for some time. It was about you and how dedicated you were to being miserable. And unfortunately, it means you've inflicted misery on those around you."

Matthew presses his lips together and his gaze drops to his feet. He looks so very ashamed. "It isn't as though I want to be like this. Think about what you'd be giving up, really think about it. You were noble in staying by my side, but I was offering you a different life when you proposed."

"For all you told me I wasn't thinking it through, it was all I ever thought about. Giving up Downton would have been the hardest thing I ever could have done. But without you, I couldn't see myself as ever being happy again. If a sacrifice had to be made, I would have sacrificed Downton."

Matthew sits back in his chair, squeezing his eyes together.

"What do you want from me, Matthew? You spent months trying to push me away and then the second I go, you telephone me every day. Twice a day. You can't have it both ways."

"I know," he pleads. "I know, and I don't know what I want from you. I'm sorry, I truly am. I...I've been trying to save you from a life with me as I am and then the second you left I was...I have been in complete despair, Mary. Part of that is guilt, I know, but-"

"What do you want from me?" she asks again. "I can't spend the rest of my life being punished the way you've been punishing me for the last few months. I won't. Losing Downton, losing a future with children, it feels downright insignificant in comparison to the misery you've been determined to inflict upon me. The only unhappiness you could give me is by behaving the way you have been these last few months."

"And I'll regret nothing more than the way I've acted," he rasps. "I've behaved abominably, and you're through with me. You have every right to be."

She sighs. "Why do you think me so stupid, Matthew? What have I done to deserve it?"

"I...I don't think you're stupid at all."

"And yet you insisted on knowing what's best for me. Insisted on pushing me away and treating me like I wasn't capable of making decisions for myself. I am. And I wanted you."

"Would you...would you really have married me? Without the inheritance, without my legs, without the possibility of children...did you really love me so terribly much that you would have given it all up?"

"I wouldn't have even hesitated."

He makes a wounded sound, looking desperate to compose himself. "I knew it would be painful, but I didn't think it would hurt quite this much to be broken from you."

"Because this is your own doing. It's one thing when your change in circumstance might have driven me away, but it didn't. Your own cruel behaviour did."

Perhaps it's unfair, to twist the knife in further, but Mary won't let him look back on this day as anything other than him ruining himself. She won't be remembered as the woman who was frightened away by his injury. 

"So this is it, then."

"Just like you wanted," Mary replies a bit sharply, feeling nauseated. Her few weeks away had given her reprieve, but nothing could have kept her composed for this. "We've made a break of it."

Matthew sets his hands on the wheels of his chair. "I'll inform everyone. It should be...it should be my job, shouldn't it?"

She nods, waiting until she can see his body start to tremble before speaking again. "We've made a break of it, Matthew. So you can no longer accuse me of staying out of obligation."

That's made him pause, at least. "What does that mean?"

"Just what I said. You _informed_ me that the only reason I was with you was because we were engaged and I felt duty-bound. Well, you cannot accuse me of that any longer."

He swallows thickly, staring at her suspiciously. She can nearly see the gears in his head turn. "You have no obligation to me, I've certainly made sure of that. I've acted a fool, again and again and again. I don't even have anything to offer you."

"And yet here I am," she replies simply.

He begins to shake again, wheeling himself forward until his knees nearly touch hers. "Tell me I haven't lost you for good. Oh Mary, I've been such a fool."

"You have been," she agrees. "I won't allow you to say cruel things to me or push me away. I've had quite enough of that."

"I'll never speak you against you again," he vows. 

"And I won't allow a constant stream of self-pity. It's exhausting. I am by your side because I want to be there. Believe me, if I didn't want to be with you, I wouldn't be."

"I do believe you," he insists. Shakily, he reaches out for her, and after a moment she takes his hand. He bends, bringing her fingers to his lips. "I'm sorry, Mary. So dreadfully, dreadfully sorry." 

"I know," she says again.

"So you'll consider it?"

She remains tight-lipped. "Consider what?"

He finally meets her eye. "It's a pathetic proposition, I know. But I will love you, Mary, more than anyone has ever been loved. I can't promise you a life devoid of my black moods and self-pity, but I vow not to sink into despair and to beg your forgiveness afterwards. If you change your mind, before wedding, long after...I won't stand in your way. But I will do whatever I can in the meantime to make you happy." 

A tear runs down his cheek, and she leans forward to wipe it away. "Is this a proposal?"

"You know that it is," he chokes out, managing a shuddering laugh and a smile. "After three of them, you surely can recognize when I'm proposing."

"Considering your feelings towards me, I think you can understand why I might be skeptical."

 

"I've no right to ask," he insists, "for your hand or even for your forgiveness. No right at all."

"You have every right, we are engaged."

"I love you," he rasps. Mary's hand strays to brush his hair back from his face. 

"I love you, too. Never doubt me again."

"Kiss me. Please, Mary, just once."

She entwines her fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him in to kiss him. They've kissed plenty of times in the last few months, though Matthew is always tight-lipped and unresponsive. Not this time. Matthew bends forward in his chair, and it all feels very intimate, despite only touching at the lips and knees. 

"Am I hurting you?"

"No," he says hoarsely, gazing up at her, fingers straying to tuck her hair behind her ear. "No, quite the opposite. I'm astonished. I thought for certain you'd tell me you never wanted to see me again."

"You would have deserved it," she replies, unable to keep from smiling. 

"I certainly would have. Which only further proves that I'm not worthy of you."

"Now you're being dramatic." She kisses him again, and then once more, before leans  back and takes his hand, stroking her thumb over his knuckles. "I should apologize for not taking your calls. I just...needed some time to think things through."

He nods. "I haven't even asked you about Carlisle. Selfish of me, yet again. His secretary rang here to request a meeting, I was sick with jealousy."

"Nothing like that. He's allowed me to purchase the story from him. And with Vera Bates dead, it puts an end to this particular threat of revelation."

Matthew shakes his head. "The rest can be dismissed as gossip."

"That's what Papa said."

There's a moment of comfortable silence, where Mary feels the weight of the last few weeks begin to loosen from her shoulders. Perhaps she might not be cursed after all. Perhaps happiness truly was within her reach. 

"Are you really certain you'll be happy with me, come what may?" He clasps her hand tightly to keep her from pulling away. "I'll only ask this once more. I promise. I just...need to be certain. No children. No...proper marriage. Maybe even no financial security."

"It will be difficult," she says after a moment. "I've no doubt about it. But I could never regret being with you. I promise you that."

There's a commotion outside, and they spring apart just as Robert throws the door open. 

"Forgive me," he says, beaming and panting like he's just run a mile. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I've just heard word. The war is over."


	9. Honeymoon

"Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her so long as you both shall live?" the archbishop drones on, and there's a long moment of dreadful silence. 

But he squeezes her hands, looking up pointedly at her from his chair, and she realizes that he's waiting for her to change her mind. She squeezes back. 

"I will."

It's her turn, and she consents so quickly she nearly speaks over the archbishop.

She should be lavishing in this, she knows, but she just wants it over with. She just wants the ceremony done and over with, the certificate signed, so that they can be married. 

Then it will be too late for Matthew to change his mind. 

She's always found these ceremonies to be dreadfully long, but this seems more drawn out than usual. She's afraid to even look away from Matthew for a moment, lest she break some sort of spell that gets him to agree to this. 

He slides the ring onto her finger, squeezes her hand again. The declaration, the certificate signing, and then finally, relief. 

She smiles and leans down to kiss him, and then she's walking beside him as he rolls the wheels of his chair down the aisle and out of the church. 

He's quite embarrassed to be lifted into the carriage with the people of the village standing by to watch, but when they're both inside they look like any other couple on their wedding day. She grasps his hand tightly and waves to the crowds. 

" _How sad for Lady Mary that she's married a cripple,_ they must be saying to each other."

She sighs. "Matthew, please don't ruin this. I've married you at last, I want to be happy today. Don't try so hard to make me unhappy."

He has the good sense to look guilty. "Forgive me. I am happy, truly. I'm just reminded today of the things you're sacrificing to be with me."

"They're my sacrifices to make."

Matthew's expression softens and he leans in, kissing her firmly. A cheer roars from the well-wishers, and finally, he smiles against her lips. 

* * *

When Matthew had suggested Cannes for their honeymoon, Mary had resisted. 

Being in France so soon after the war seemed like nothing less than a recipe for disaster. She didn't fancy stirring up Matthew's nightmares from the war again, or his black moods, even if they weren't honeymooning in a hospital in Paris. 

"I'll be fine," he had promised her. "It's not as though I can travel terribly exotically in a wheelchair, anyway."

And so she had consented, finding a beautiful hotel right near the seaside with a paved outer area for Matthew's chair. 

It is a beautiful place. 

Though Matthew's dark moods are not erased, he seems more content here, more willing to tilt his head up for a kiss or hold her hand. They've had a few rows so far, though that is inevitable with the two of them, injury or not. 

The first had been on their wedding night. She knew he was disappointed and grieving over being unable to consummate their marriage, but he was sulky and eager to pick a fight, and so she gave him one. 

Another had been over their sleeping arrangements. Mary had demanded that they share a bed, citing her parents as examples (for all she had teased them about it in the past), but Matthew had adamantly refused. His inability to control his bodily functions was humiliating enough without her there to witness it at night, he had claimed. That row had lasted two days, until finally Mary stormed into his room, taken the other side of the mattress, and turned out the light. When he had protested, she'd rolled towards him and said, "then push me onto the floor."

They sleep together most nights, now. 

It isn't as though their marriage was devoid of all intimacies. After some initial fumblings and awkwardness, they occasionally pass the night in a way that leaves her satisfied. It isn't quite what she really wants, but it was more than she had even known to hope for before their wedding. 

"I was a bit surprised when you arrived at the ceremony," he says one night over dinner. "I wasn't entirely sure you would show."

"I should hate to be predictable," she replies with a smirk. "But honestly, did you think I spent all of those months being repeatedly rejected by you only to change my mind once I got you to agree?"

He sighs. "I suppose I thought if there was ever a time when the gravity of what you were about to do would hit you, it would be when you were about to tie yourself to me for the rest of your life."

She bristles. "I wish you wouldn't talk like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm some stupid girl that only married you because I didn't know any better. I've known you for many years. I nursed you for months. Spent weeks planning our wedding."

He looks down at the table. "I didn't mean to imply that at all."

"You have. Repeatedly. You told me that I didn't know what I was in for, and then I cared for you for months. You said that you wouldn't marry me without being able to provide, and then that Gordon fool turned out to be a fraud and your inheritance was secure. You  _married_ me, and now still complain as though to drive me away."

"I don't mean to be sour," he protests. "Really. I just...It's hitting me more and more, all of the things I'll never be able to give you. All the things you deserve."

"I don't want anything but you, I've tried to make that clear. You'd do well not to treat your wife like an idiot who doesn't know her own mind."

Things remain tense until they return to their rooms. She had known that marriage would be difficult, but she hadn't anticipated feeling so dejected after barely a week. Mary changes in the other bedroom and hesitates, but once the servants leave she steels herself and wanders into Matthew's room, the room they share.

He was clutching white-knuckled at his leg when she enters, brow furrowed, but his expression softened as he sees her. 

"You came."

"I should hate to be predictable," she says again, before slipping into the bed on what has become her side. 

"I don't mean to be cruel, Mary," he says at last. "But it can be difficult for me. Please understand. The beach is full of honeymooning couples walking along the shore and I can't be one of them."

"I wish we could be one of them, too," she agrees. "But that's just not in the cards for us. Can't we just be happy with what we do have? A comfortable future at Downton, a beautiful location for our honeymoon. We're both alive, healthy. You've survived the war. Not every engaged couple is so lucky. I am trying to be sympathetic, Matthew, but the self-pity is wearing me thin."

"I'm sorry." He reaches out tentatively, and she curls into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. "We are fortunate in a great many ways. I need to focus on that. I can't say that I will always be successful. I know you've been patient enough with me..."

"I love you, but unfortunately I'm not a saint like Sybil. I'll try to be understanding, as well." She puts her hand against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing as she had so many times after his injury. While he slept, when his breath would pause for just a moment, and she had been afraid...

"Then I suppose we'll have to muddle through," he replies, putting his hand over hers and tilting his cheek down to rest against her hair. "Things were never going to be easy between us. We're both far too strong-willed for a peaceful marriage."

"But I would like to at least enjoy myself somewhat," she protests. "You looked quite severe when I first came in. What's the matter?"

"I just thought..."

"Thought what?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. I just was thinking about what I'd said at dinner."

She doesn't quite believe him, but doesn't pry. She falls asleep in his arm, content for the time-being.

* * *

Matthew's mood does improve in the coming few weeks. He's quick to remark on the beautiful weather, the quietness of the day, how wonderful she looks. He can still be a bit gloomy, but she can see that he's making an effort for her, and it means a great deal. 

Until, that is, a couple of weeks later. He wakes in a quiet mood that doesn't lift for some time. Then he seems almost overly happy, bright-spirited and unbelievably enthusiastic for nothing in particular. 

It's a welcome change from his black moods, but she has to wonder if this is the next stage in his coping. If so, she'd be pleased to see him settle down into the more consistent man he was before. 

When she asks after him, he just changes the subject or briefly reassures that that nothing's wrong. But he seems quite changed. 

He stops reaching for her at night, touching her, instead going to bed seemingly lost in his own head. 

She wants to protest, but isn't sure how. She's chastised him for being too bitter and angry, but know he's either quiet or almost too happy. What could she say?

After near two long weeks of this behaviour, he wakes her in the middle of the night, the rays of daylight barely present on the horizon. 

"Mary. Mary, wake up."

She squints in the dark to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her, his legs dangling over the side. 

"Do you have any idea what time-"

"Come here," he interrupts. 

"Matthew-"

" _Please."_

She rises, making her way to the other side of the bed. He's wide-eyed and completely awake. He's almost manic-looking, and Mary suddenly feels terribly afraid. 

"Matthew, you need to go back to-"

"My legs hurt," he cuts her off. "Give me your hands."

"What?"

"Give me your hands," he demands, though there's no anger in his voice, just frantic energy. "Pull me up."

"I don't know if I can lift you into your chair, Matthew."

"Pull me up," he snaps again, and shakily, she offers her hands, letting him grasp them before tugging firmly. He grunts with effort and then rises onto his feet. 

And remains standing. 

She's forgotten how tall he is. 

"My God," she gasps, and Matthew lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, resting his hands on her shoulders. "How-"

"I've been feeling a tingling sensation in my legs for months. It only started to happen constantly for a couple of weeks," he replies, legs shaking in the effort to stay standing. "I woke up and realised my legs hurt. I could  _feel_ them, Mary!"

"My God," she says again, tears burning in her eyes. She's suddenly very, very awake. "Matthew."

"Oh, they're sore."

"Don't tire yourself out," she says, slipping her hands around his waist to help lower him back onto the mattress. He doesn't let her go, instead pulling her in for a heated kiss. His fingers tangle in her hair and she falls half in his lap, the joy of it all making her dizzy. "We have to call a doctor tomorrow. To see if this is permanent. You should rest."

"My God, Mary," he cries, pulling her down for another kiss. "How could I ever sleep after this?"

"You should try." She curls up next to him, but can't imagine how she'll sleep either. She settles for brushing her fingers down his legs, asking him what he can sense. It gets less noticeable the further down his leg she goes, but even at the ends of his toes he can feel some pressure. 

They must sleep, because she wakes up to sunlight streaming in from the windows. He's already awake, staring at her from across the pillows. For one sick moment, she thinks she must have imagined it. 

"Was it a dream, last night?" he asks, and she nearly bursts into tears from relief. 

"No. Shall we try again?" She goes to his side, helping him sit and swing his legs over the edge of the mattress. With a tug, Matthew is pulled upright again. She buries her face into his chest, throwing her arms around him. 

"I can't believe this is real," he murmurs. 

"I'll telephone the lobby and have them book us to see a physician," she vows. "Oh, Matthew, please let this be real."

* * *

Thank God for the physician's near-perfect English. Mary barely understands any of it in her own language, let alone her governess-taught French.

A French doctor treating Matthew. Granny would disapprove. 

"So his spine hasn't been transected?" she asks, clutching onto Matthew's hand on the sofa of the sitting room when the doctor has completed his examination. 

He shakes his head. "No, I think spinal shock. Er, bruising to the spine. It was severe enough to stop the legs from working."

"But this will heal," she says. "Continue to heal."

He tilts his head back and forth as though thinking. "He will have the bruise for the rest of his life, I think. He maybe will use a cane, but maybe not. And he must not push himself too much. Rome was not built in a day, as they say."

"But I will have a life," Matthew finishes, squeezing her hand tightly. They've not yet had the courage to look at one another. They can't bear to. 

The doctor nods. "A normal life. And soon. You are far along in your healing if you can walk."

He packs up his bag as they sit in stunned silence. Of course they knew he could feel his legs once again, but to hear it confirmed was something else entirely. 

"Wait," Matthew says before the man can step out of the door. "What about children? Will we be able to..."

The doctor smiles at them both. "It is your  _spine_  that is damaged, Mr. Crawley. I see no reason why not."

The sit in silence for a long time after his departure, just squeezing each other's hands desperately. 

"I hope you feel terrible," she finally manages. 

"I'm sorry?"

She turns to face him. "All of those months of trying to inflict misery onto me to chase me away, all to end up recovering. What if you had managed to put me off you only to get better?"

He blinks owlishly at her and then breaks into a smile, pulling her in by the back of the neck for a kiss. 

"I would have crawled to you on my hands and now-functioning knees and begged for you to take me back. Pleaded with you. Oh, Mary. Are you angry with me?"

She sighs. "I'm rather afraid that I've forced you into this, funnily enough. It was one thing to agree to marry me when you had no other option, but now? You could have anyone, but it's too late."

He exhales, pulling her in again to embrace her, pressing his cheek against her temple. "It was only ever you, Mary. If I had walked out away without so much as a scratch, I would have married you the second the war was over. I've been such a fool. I am so, so sorry. Do you know how sorry I am?"

For the millionth time these past few months, she feels tears well in her eyes. "Don't be. You were suffering."

"I was selfish," he replies. "You sacrifice your life, your children, your future, all to marry me, and then I give you the brush off again and again? You said Sybil was the saint of the family but you were wrong."

He turns his face just slightly to kiss her, hands straying to her waist. She isn't sure where to place his arms and settles for his shoulders. 

They eventually have to pull away for air, and she leans against him, resting her forehead against his own.

"I should...I should telephone your mother to tell her. And Papa and Mama."

"Let's wait," he pleads. "They'll only start badgering us about when we'll return so they can see for themselves. We still have a few weeks left here. I want to spend them with my wife.  _Enjoy_ them with my wife."

"That should give us more than enough time to walk along the shore like a honeymooning couple," she says with a smile. 

"How will I ever repay you for everything you've done?" he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

"You have the rest of our lives. I'm sure you'll think of something."

* * *

If the first half of their honeymoon had been more-or-less relaxing, they spent the remainder of it in complete bliss. Matthew couldn't walk far and they were careful not to cause more damage by being overzealous, but Mary went to the shops and purchased a walking stick for him, and helped him peel off his socks and shoes so he could feel the sand underneath his feet. 

Using his legs after so long often them them aching, and so she would massage them as he lay sprawled out over their bed. They lie in every morning, save for one where they got up at dawn to see the sun rise. 

Mary feels like a newlywed for the first time. 

She isn't aware of just how much she's needed this until she has it. Matthew has become loving, uninhibited, completely unselfconscious. He reaches for her hand first, initiates kisses, pulls her to him before they sleep. 

One night she enters the bedroom to find him sitting up, looking nervous but quite determined. She knows instantly. With his back still bruised and healing, it had taken some fumbling and maneuvering until they both found comfort, but life everything between them, they'd figured it out. And quite frequently since. 

Perhaps this has all been a blessing, in some way. Instead of being very much aware that he isn't his wife's first lover like Mary had feared during the consummation of their marriage, he seems moved to ecstasy just to be able to count himself among her lovers at all. Pamuk had approached her like the Casanova he saw himself, all smug grins and put-upon suaveness. Matthew is rapturous, unashamed to show his need and unembarrassed by his fumbling. When he cries out on top of her, she feels an unexpected surge of panic, the events of That Night flooding back, but then Matthew is panting beside her, burying his face into her neck and trailing his fingers downwards until she cries out, too. Mary is sure she can feel his tears against her skin, but she doesn't comment, merely brushes her fingers through his hair. 

When they wake the next morning, he smiles widely if not a little shyly, calling her 'wife' and then pulling her in for a heated kiss.

When they do leave the bedroom, she manages to remember that she has promised to keep in touch. She feels a bit guilty writing a postcard to her family without mentioning what's happened, but Matthew is right. They'll be so astonished that they'll either beg the pair to come home early or keep in far closer contact than they would want. This was a time for the two of them, and so she settles for expressing her excitement about bringing them all back a wonderful surprise. 

"If they knew I was recovering, they'd think you'd mean you were pregnant already," he grins as she finishes writing. 

It's been lingering between them since the doctor's visit. The thought of their children was something Mary can barely stand to think about. She knows nothing is a guarantee, Matthew had said they were cursed after all, but she wants this so desperately. How much heartache could one couple take? 

"My goodness. Take a breath before you're ready to abandon our honeymoon and get to having a family. We've barely got this piece of news."

It should have been disappointing, when their honeymoon draws to a close and they begin to make their way north, but the anticipation of seeing the surprise on all of their faces is far too exciting. 

They break in London, each busying themselves during the day and meeting for dinner. She's missed him terribly in the few hours they've been apart.

"I've bought a car," he tells her excitedly, and she nearly rolls her eyes. If only he didn't look so boyishly happy. 

"Why on earth? We have a car. And a chauffeur."

"This only seats two, there's no room for a chauffeur," he informs her proudly. "It's an AC. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I saw one in the shop and it suddenly hit me that I'd be able to drive again. It's such a silly thing to have missed, but I have."

She can't begrudge him that. He's been frustrated and a bit irritable with the slow progress of his recovery, but it's not even remotely as dark as his previous moods. He can be swayed back to bright spirits with a kiss and a flirtatious smile. They feel like Matthew-and-Mary again, and she rejoices in it. 

It's worth a sports car.

It will take weeks to get in, and so they take the train back to Yorkshire. They've telephoned ahead to let the family know they'll arrive just before dinner, and to ensure Violet and Isobel would be present, all under the guise of being eager to see them after such a long absence.

Brandon's eyes go wide when he sees Matthew walk to the waiting car, Mary firmly supporting him as they go. 

"My God," he breathes. "I hadn't-"

"No one at home knows," she grins as Branson helps him into the car. She's always appreciated his ability to give Matthew a firm hand but never fuss or do more than necessary. She suspects Matthew appreciates it, too. 

When the car pulls up to Downton, she's giddy with excitement, squeezing his hand tightly. Carson opens the door on her side and she steps out as they all flood out of the door to greet the newlyweds. 

"Mary!" Robert beams, and Cora kisses her cheek. Mary nods to Edith and kisses Sybil, as well. "How was it?"

"Marvellous," Mary grins, buzzing with excitement. She can tell by the looks on their faces that they are surprised, that they weren't anticipating Mary to be in such bright spirits, given the circumstances. She kisses Violet and Isobel quickly and then returns to the car. On the opposite side, Branson has helped Matthew down, and he is trying to gain his footing in the loose gravel. But he smiles widely at her and takes her arm, leaning against her and his walking stick equally as they make their way around the vehicle to reveal himself to the family. 

She isn't sure there's a word to describe the absolute look of shock on their faces when Matthew appears, shuffling along beside her. Even the ever-stoic Carson looks flabbergasted. 

Matthew looks shy but very pleased, and leads Mary over towards his mother. Poor Isobel looks like she might very well faint. She, a woman who has nursed the most grisly of injuries. 

"Mother," he breathes. "I suppose this is the tallest you've seen me in nearly a year."

"My darling boy," she rasps, and Mary releases Matthew so Isobel can embrace him, tears falling down her cheeks. "My  _darling_ boy." 

It seems to break the trance that has stunned them all, and Robert lets out a whooping laugh. 

"My dear chap!"

"How is this even possible?" Cora gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. 

When Isobel has released Matthew and he's kissed her cheek, she takes his arm again to steady him against the shifting gravel under his feet. 

"Why don't we head in so Matthew can sit down? We'll explain everything then."

* * *

"I began feeling...sensations...a tingling in my legs several months ago."

"And you didn't say anything?" Robert replies, stunned. 

Matthew smiles sheepishly. They've all piled into the dining room, the few servants they pass staring in shock as they pass. Matthew is a bit white-faced by the time they reach the dining room, and so Mary helps ease him into a chair with practiced hands, hand pressed against the base of his spine as he sits, careful not to let him injury himself again. She barely registers them all watching her, her eyes are only on Matthew. "I consulted Clarkson and he informed me that it was a common thing, with soldiers missing limbs and such. To be able to...feel them, feel them move, even if they weren't there. I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up, least of all mine. I began to feel them more intensely a few weeks into our honeymoon. I tried to keep it from Mary until I was sure, but suddenly I woke one night to find my legs aching. I don't know how long I laid there until I realised that if I was in pain then I must be feeling them."

He reaches across the end of the table to squeeze Mary's hand. Nobody had protested their sitting together, though it wasn't the normal way of things. 

"I woke her up in the dead of night, begging her to help me stand. She must have thought I was quite mad. I'm not sure why I knew I could do it, but I did. Mary telephoned to see a physician the next morning, and he confirmed it all."

"And what was the explanation for this?" Isobel asks, her nursing instinct kicking in. "How could this be?"

"My spine only seemed to be transected because I couldn't feel anything," Matthew explains. "But apparently, it was only severely bruised. The swelling and injury inhibited the movement of my legs. It was only when enough healing had taken place that I began to feel them again."

"How extraordinary," Robert cries. "My dear boy, I can't begin to tell you what this means to me."

"It's pretty good news for me, too," Matthew jokes, glancing across the table adoringly at Mary. Her heart skips. He was so terribly handsome. She thought about him all of those months ago, bruises under both eyes, cuts on his cheeks, his face so pale he matched the bedsheets. 

"And so you will recover?" Robert continues. " _Fully_ recover?"

The underlying meaning is so terribly obvious that Mary nearly rolls her eyes. "He may have to walk with a stick," she informs them all. "But he may not, either. His spine will always carry the damage, but the doctor said he shouldn't regress. Not if he doesn't injure it again. He's to live a perfectly normal life."

"With a house full of children," Matthew finishes, putting poor Robert out of his misery. Mary flushes but squeezes his hand again as the rest of the table titters with joy. 

"What extraordinary luck," Robert says, shaking his head in disbelief. 

"Or a miracle from God," Cora says fondly, the teary-eyed happiness never having left her eyes. "Someone up there must be very fond of you, Matthew."

"Shall we toast?" Isobel says suddenly. "To the happy couple?"

"To Mary," Matthew cuts in, squeezing her hand and turning his gaze back to her. "Who has proven herself time and time again to be the most...marvellous person."

"Hear hear," Robert chimes, holding up his glass. 

"I have been in a pit of misery and self-loathing since this all began, and I tried relentlessly to push her away again and again so I could wallow in despair. But despite how cruelly I've treated her, she's been as equally relentless. Only a short time ago, I had nothing to offer her, not even a decent version of myself. And instead of abandoning me like anyone else could not be blamed for doing, she married me. If through this God is rewarding someone for their unparalleled virtues, it's Mary. My wife. I can only vow to spend the rest of my days trying to reward her myself for her faithfulness and kindness, neither of which I deserve."

It's Cousin Isobel who raises her glass and says, "to Mary."

"To Mary." They all drink, and Mary leans in to kiss her husband chastely, breaking apart when Carson enters the dining room with the first course.

* * *

"How's your mother?" he asks when she walks into the library. 

"A little feverish, but nothing too serious," Mary assures him, making her way to sit beside him on the sofa. Matthew abandons his book to take her hand, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. Mama had taken ill the night before and excused herself. Carson had disappeared, as well, and then Molesley, leaving Anna to flit around the table in white gloves, pouring wine. 

"This house has had enough illness in it," he says. "I hope she recovers quickly."

"Have you been in the library all day?" she asks, and he looks sheepish. 

"It's terribly lazy of me, I know. But I've spent the last few days back overdoing it, and now I find I can barely do more than sit here and rest."

Mary smiles. "I told you to pace yourself."

"I know. And I never listen. But it's difficult to take things slowly when the whole of the house smiles so widely that their cheeks nearly split every time I just stand up from my chair. It's nice to see them look at me with something other than sadness and pity, again."

"They didn't look at you that way."

"When we finished dinner and the ladies went through that first night back, Robert welcomed me back to Downton as his son and said how terribly pleased he was about our marriage. I can't help but think the enthusiasm was more due to the fact that I could walk, could give you children."

Mary sighs, taking his hand again. "Papa has seen you as a son for far longer than we've been married. He was worried about my future happiness, perhaps, but he was also worried about yours. He saw that you were unhappy. And how happy you are now."

"You're right," he replies, leaning in to kiss her. "Of course you are. Look at me, pitying myself again when there's nothing wrong with me."

"You'll have a few more before I start to get angry about it," she teases. "Besides, you should appreciate Papa's approval of you now. I suspect it won't be long before he starts dropping hints about grandchildren."

Matthew smiles. "He'll have an ally in those regards," he admits. "I find I'm rather eager to start a family of our own."

"My goodness, we've barely caught our breath! Surely we can take a moment for the excitement to die down before we think about wanting more."

"Does it make me terribly greedy?" he asks. "I'm so grateful for what's happened. Grateful for you. But after doing nothing but think about how I'll never have children of my own..."

"Children will come in time," she reassures him. "It isn't a race. I do expect you to be on my side when Papa starts breathing down our necks."

He looks quite ready to respond with a retort, but the door of the library swings open and Sybil comes in, dressed in her nurse's uniform. 

"Mary, you'd better come quickly. It's Mama. She's taken a turn for the worse."


	10. Sybil's Mary

"How is she?" Matthew asks as soon as she appears at the bottom of the stairs. 

She pushes the tendrils of hair that have fallen away from her face and sighs. "Better, I think. Dr. Clarkson's been in. After that horrible scare yesterday...he says she's lasted through the night and that is a very good sign."

"Thank God," he breathed, holding out his hand for her.

She crosses the door of the entryway quickly, wiping her clammy hands on her skirt before placing her fingers into his palm. He pulls her in and embraces her, turning his nose into her hair. 

Mary takes a long breath, appreciating the long moment he affords her to compose herself. She pulls away at last, trying to pretend she hasn't desperately needed that. She was scared. So, so scared. This wasn't supposed to happen. The war is over, that's what they have all been longing for. The death and fear isn't supposed to continue on.

"Just when I think things will settle down, another threat arises. Surely it isn't this hard, for most people."

"The war and the Spanish flu have happened to a great many people, I don't think we're alone in it. Perhaps not this close to their wedding, but at least we've managed to make it through. Cousin Cora will be alright. She'll be alright."

"You're right. Things could be far worse. I hope fate doesn't take those words as a challenge."

He smiles gently at her, brushing her cheek with his thumb, and she turns to the side, eager to distract them both. 

His walking stick has been propped on the entryway table, and there's a record placed to the side of the gramophone. 

"I'm glad to see someone making use of the wedding present. Granny acts as though it might electrocute her at any moment," she says quietly, motioning to the table. "What are you doing?"

With a guilty look, Matthew releases her to place the record under the needle. "Trying to keep busy. With the worst of it over, I thought it might do for some cheering up around here."

"I haven't heard this one."

"Actually, I rather like it. I think it was in a show that flopped. _Zip Goes a Million_ , or something." 

He holds out his hands, and she steps into them as he walks them backwards into the middle of the room. The posture feels automatic, her hand resting on his shoulder, his hand falling to her back. 

"Can you manage without your stick?" she asks him as he turns her slowly, surprisingly adept for a man so recently recovered.

"You are my stick." 

She grins and then steps closer, resting her chin on his shoulder, tilting her head towards him. His hand slips just slightly lower into the small of her back. 

"We haven't danced in ages," she muses. "Since I visited you in London while you were on leave."

"I dreamt about this endlessly when I thought I'd never walk again," he murmurs into her ear. "I would have given my life to dance with you one more time."

"I'm glad that wasn't necessary. We have a great many dances ahead of us, with any luck."

He hums in response. "Let's go to London. When everything is well, here, when I've recovered even more. We'll take a trip to London and go dancing every night." 

"That sounds wonderful," she smiles. "See, there's something to enjoy before we have children," she teases, turning her head to kiss his cheek. When she pulls away, he tilts his chin down to press a kiss to her lips. It's heartbreakingly tender, and desperately wants it to last forever. 

"As eager as I am, I may not be fit enough to dance all night without a break," he says softly when they finally break apart. "I hope I can count on you not to laugh when I have to find a seat and catch my breath."

Mary pulls him in again to rest her chin on his shoulder. "You can always count on me."

"I know that," Matthew replies thickly, hand pressing more firmly against her back. "I didn't think it was possible to love as much as I love you."

Footsteps on the stairs startle them apart. It's only been days since they've been a married couple at Downton, they're not used to being found wrapped together. 

It's Sybil, who catches sight of them and looks sorry to have interrupted. Mary realises then that the song has finished, perhaps long ago, and they've been dancing to the sound of the whirring record. 

"Is it Mama?" Mary asks, and Sybil shakes her head. 

"I was just going to check on Carson. Mama is still fine. O'Brien has been stationed at her bedside and has barely slept, so she's in good hands."

"Thank God," she says, reaching for Matthew's hand. She feels suddenly guilty for enjoying herself while Mama is bed-ridden upstairs. The war seems to have taught her how to separate her fear and anxiety from her day-to-day functioning. 

"Well," Sybil says with a wistful smile, "don't let me be a nuisance." With a nod to both of them, she scurries off to leave them alone together once again. 

* * *

Cora has recovered enough in two weeks' time to join them for dinner and then drinks in the library. 

"I feel terribly guilty for ruining what should have been a happy time here," she tells them all, looking towards Matthew and Mary. "The family should be celebrating, not steeped in worry."

"It's hardly your fault, Mama," Mary replies. "It could have been far worse, that's just one more reason to celebrate."

"This family has been steeped in worry during most of Mary's and my relationship, I think it's rather keeping up with the tradition," Matthew jests, resting his hand on the back of Mary's chair. 

"Eventually, I'll have to update you on the goings on of the estate," Robert says to Matthew, swirling his drink in his glass. "No rest for the wicked, I'm afraid."

"I'll be glad to have something to do," Matthew assures him. "As much as I've enjoyed the holiday and all that it's brought, I should like to get to work before I get sulky and drive my poor wife mad."

"Oh, I'll certainly be mad," Mary promises dangerously, though Matthew only smiles at her severe expression. 

Anything that might be said is lost when Branson strides purposefully into the dining room. 

Sybil rises. And then takes his hand. 

* * *

"Has she completely lost her mind?" Mary rails, pacing back and forth across the bedroom. Matthew watches her from bed, silent. "What can she be thinking? And so soon after Mama has recovered, we're lucky this doesn't send her to her grave!"

"She did say they planned on eloping earlier," Matthew reminds her, "but that she changed her mind after we were to arrive home. She didn't want to spoil our homecoming. They have put some thought into the timing."

"Are you defending her?" Mary asks, turning to him accusingly. 

Matthew holds up his hands. "I don't think it's for me to have an opinion."

"Of course it is! You're her brother, now, you must be able to talk her out of it!" 

"She's leaving on Friday, Mary. With or without my advice." 

"How can you be so calm about this?" 

He sighs. "Look, this isn't ideal. I know it isn't ideal. But when Sybil gets her head into something, you know she'll never let it go. I think, of everyone, you should try to be on her side."

"On her side? You want me to send her off with love as she marries the chauffeur?"

"All I'm saying," he defends, "is that there are a list of possible outcomes that may take place. By Friday afternoon, Sybil may very well change her mind. But if everyone keeps threatening and pushing her, it will only make her more determined to marry, you know what she's like. And then say they do marry. It will either work out between them or it won't. If it does and you've shunned him, you'll never be apart of her life again, she won't let you. You may very well never see her again, you don't want that, however much you disapprove. And if things _don't_ work out and they split, if you've shunned her she'll feel as though she has no one to turn to. If things fall apart, do you want her to fall into your arms for support or do you want her be alone and feel unable to come home?"

Mary listens with gritted teeth before huffing and sitting firmly down on her side of the bed. "Why do you always have to be so logical all of the time? It's maddening."

He gives her a lopsided smirk. "All I'm saying is that what's happened has happened. I'm not saying you have to pretend that you're thrilled about it, but if you do try to talk her out of it, approach it from the perspective of how difficult it will be, not hissing and spitting like your father. That will only make her more determined to rebel. Reason with her. And then if she still marries him, she'll feel like she has an ally in you, someone who truly cares about  _her,_ not just what you want for her."

"I don't see how you can be so calm," she says again, turning her head to face him. 

Matthew reaches for her hand. "Darling, there was a time not long ago when you were determined to marry a man that had nothing to offer you. Don't forget that." 

"That's different. We all knew you. Loved you. You were the heir to Downton, not a chauffeur! And a now-unemployed one, at that!"

"That Gordon fellow's claims that he was Patrick Crawley put my inheritance in jeopardy. And still you were determined to marry me." He kisses her knuckles. "I know it's not exactly the same, but I just think...what if Branson is Sybil's 'Mary?'"

She shakes her head. "What do you mean?"

"I know how devastated I felt when I thought my injury would prevent us from marrying. I was in despair. If Sybil loves Branson like that, if she feels that the loss of him would be just as excruciating as the near-loss of you was for me...I don't know that I want to be her obstacle."

Mary's expression softens, just a bit, and she leans in to rest her head on his shoulder. "I hate it when you say sweet things when I'm trying to be angry."

He laughs at that. "Tell Sybil that this will break your heart, but that ultimately you want her to be happy. You don't have to be on Branson's side, but make it clear that you're on  _Sybil's_ side, whatever that may mean. If you want her in your life, I think it's the only way."

"Papa will never open his arms to it."

Matthew shrugs. "If this is what Sybil  _really_ wants, then the person who will suffer most for banishing them is Cousin Robert. For all our fears about what sort of life she'll have to lead, what if in the end she's terribly happy with him? It's Robert who will miss her wedding, who will never see her children. It will hurt her, but he will suffer most."

"You're awfully wise about this. Is there a scandalous near-elopement in your past that you haven't told me about?"

"No. I've just finally begun to listen to you. You protested that in trying to release you from our engagement, I was treating you like a helpless fool who didn't have enough sense. And perhaps, just like you, Sybil knows her own mind."

She sulks, playing with a button on his pajama top. "I hate it when you throw my own words back to me."

"And I hate it when you're right. I suspect they're both things that we'll have to learn to get used to in the years to come."

* * *

Sybil has gone, and the house is stunningly tense and silent. She and Matthew have conspired to brighten spirits in any way they can, finding ways to distract them all, with varying success. 

When she descends the stairs in the morning to see Matthew's brow furrowed, she fears something terrible has happened. 

"I've just heard word from Reggie Swire, you remember him."

She nods. "Of course, the solicitor. I met him several times in London during the war when you were on leave. You two grew rather close, didn't you?"

"Yes," he replies glumly. "I'm afraid he's written me a letter to say that his daughter Lavinia has just died. Spanish flu." 

"Oh, Matthew. My God, she was so young...I'm so terribly sorry. She was a sweet girl."

"She was," he agrees, giving her a small, sad smile. "She was always kind to me. She was his only daughter, Reggie will be devastated. He says he hopes the funeral will be Monday. I think I'll go."

"He hopes?"

Matthew sighs. "He's caught the flu as well, and is recovering but very weak. He isn't sure he'll be able to arrange it in time. Would you mind if I left so suddenly? I'd like to help him settle it all and then be there for the funeral. He's too ill to do it alone, and they don't have many near-relations."

"I'd say it's rather generous of you," she replies. Matthew's desperation to save the world has certainly been inherited from his mother. "Why don't you telephone him now to say you're coming, I'll ensure you have a bag packed and ready to go. I'll join you in London on Monday for the funeral." 

"You don't wish to come today? I know it won't be exciting for you..."

"It won't be exciting for you, either," she replies. "And I'm afraid I can't. You must promise not to tell anyone, but my maid Anna and Mr. Bates have an appointment with the register this afternoon. They're getting married. The housemaid Jane and I have something up our sleeve that we have to attend to for them. A surprise. But I promise that I won't miss the funeral."

He leans in to kiss her. "Thank you, Darling. I know it seems a bit drastic to you to do all this, but Reggie Swire has been a good friend, and his daughter Lavinia was just as relentlessly kind. After the comfort he provided for me during the war, I would like to repay him in some way."

"Of course," she assures. "Go. I'll be sure that you have a black suit and an armband to wear. Telephone if anything's been forgotten and I'll bring it with me on Monday. And try not to run yourself ragged. You're still healing."

He kisses her and darts off, and she's left standing on the stairs feeling oddly bereft. Matthew has been so understanding and generous towards Sybil and Branson, Sybil has dedicated her life to being a nurse. Isobel is passionately finding another charity to pursue. Even Granny had fought tooth and nail to get William Mason to be cared for at Downton as he was dying so his father could visit him. 

What has Mary done? Nursed Matthew, perhaps, but it was equally for her own gain. To be with him. She didn't feel selfless, not in the same way. She would never be called "sweet" by anyone, not like Lavinia. Or brave like Sybil. Or even particularly kind. 

What if it had been her and not Lavinia who had died from the flu? What would everyone have said about her?

Left with the uncomfortable thought, Mary makes her way to the servants' hall to get started on Matthew's luggage. She and Jane could attend to dressing a bedroom for Anna's wedding night later. 


	11. In All Things

"Do you think...do you think that there's something wrong with me?" Matthew asks shyly as they crawl into bed together. 

"I could write you a list," Mary teases, reaching out for him and kiss him despite him feigning disappointment. 

"I  _mean,_ do you think there might be a reason that we haven't been able to...to have a baby, yet? My injury..."

"Darling," she sighs, reaching out to brush back his hair. "It hasn't been that long."

"It's been long enough to make me worry. We have been trying. Perhaps I should see someone."

"The timing hasn't been great, what with Sybil running off and Bates' arrest and upcoming trial. Maybe it will all work out when it's supposed to."

"I don't think babies work on a schedule, Mary. If there is a problem, we know it's my fault. That's what's so hard to bear."

Mary sighs. "Please don't worry. The doctors were wrong about your injury, there's no reason to think anything's wrong with this, either."

"Cora said last week you had been to see the doctor. I kept wondering, waiting..."

"Waiting for an announcement. It was just for my hay fever, I'm afraid," she lies. Matthew isn't the only one who is disappointed. "It hurts me to see you so low. I'm sure there's nothing wrong."

"But that's the point," he says a bit sullenly. "We're not sure."

* * *

It's difficult to reassure him when she feels quite fearful herself. 

Part of her hates herself for being so greedy and wanting children as soon as she wants them, but another part of her is just so eager to start their family. It seems as though they've wasted so much time in finally getting together, she is ready to begin their new lives. 

If only they  _could._

Between the lingering lack of children on the horizon and Matthew and Robert butting heads about the estate, things felt uneasy. 

Perhaps she is so used to merely being concerned about herself that Matthew's unhappiness is eating away at her. She had lavished in his praise and near-worship after she married him despite his injury, but now that the newlywed phase has fizzled, she finds herself left with the daunting task of trying to keep him happy. She's afraid she won't be any good at it. She certainly hasn't been succeeding lately. 

"I've heard from Sybil," she announces to the ladies in the drawing room before the men have come through. Robert won't want to hear this. "She says she misses us all, but that she's enjoying Dublin very much."

Granny laughs sharply, but Cora looks more serious. "I thought perhaps they would visit here after things had a chance to settle."

Edith raises a brow. "Would Papa even allow it?"

"Would Branson even want to visit?" she says pointedly. "At least in Dublin they're Mr. and Mrs. Branson. Here, he'd feel patronized, I'm sure."

Cora sighs. "I just hope she doesn't regret it."

"I asked her the same thing. She said in her letter that he is 'a wonderful, wonderful man' and that she could 'never regret it.' She sounds rather desperately happy, though I know things are hard. She does wish we could know him, though. To see that, I think."

"I think for Papa it's best if we didn't," Edith replies without malice. 

Mary continues on. "I told her that we will know him. And value him," she says firmly, leaving no room for debate. "She is married and she sounds so very happy. Even if it's not the life we'd have chosen for her, isn't that truly what we want for her, in the end?"

Robert and Matthew enter, then, and judging by their expressions, they've been discussing the estate, again. Though she is just as eager for things to remain unchanged, she knows it can't survive as it had in the old days. Matthew is trying to keep it in their hands, she understands that and appreciates it, even if it can be difficult to be stuck between them.

* * *

"Is it terribly uncommon for wives to stand with their husbands during shooting?" Matthew asks as they trudge through the foggy fields. 

"Not at all. Mama doesn't care much for shooting, though she'll often enough come along and stand with Papa during the later drives. Aunt Rosamund accompanies him if she's in town."

He smiles warmly at her. "Well, I very much appreciate the company."

"I still don't see why you don't have a loader. Barnard would have found you one."

As if to prove her point, he fumbles with his gun. "I'm not very good at it," he admits. "This or double guns. I don't want a witness."

"I'm a witness," she grins wolfishly, and he gives her a lopsided smirk. 

"Then please don't spread the word of my incompetence."

"Never," she vows, holding her hands over her ears as Matthew aims and fires. "I never know which is worse - the sorrow when you hit the bird or the shame when you miss it."

Matthew digs through his pockets to pull more ammunition. 

"I've heard from Sir Richard Carlisle," she tells him. "He's engaged to that woman from Scotland." 

Matthew grunts in displeasure. "Well, here's hoping he stays there or in London and doesn't make a frequent stop here on his way between them."

She smirks. "Poor Sir Richard. What has he ever done to you?"

"He was after you, that's the only reason he came up here in the first place. To tempt you away from your sad, crippled fiancé."

"I seem to recall you trying to shove me away at every opportunity and then being enormously jealous when Sir Richard so much as looked in my direction."

Matthew grunts again. "You were still engaged, however cruel I was to you. Any sort of decent man should respect that." 

"I'm not sure if 'decent' is the word for him."

"He does rather beg to be teased," Matthew agrees. "It was one thing if you'd found another man to be with when I was left injured, but  _that_ man... He treated you very poorly and he barely knew you. He was inappropriate with you, always had his hands on you. To say nothing of threatening to expose you if he didn't get his way."

"Would it have made a difference if the man that came to woo me was respectable and kind and likeable?"

He sighs, looking over his shoulder at her reluctantly. "A bit, but not very much. I hope you don't think that my efforts to get rid of you were because I didn't love you or desire you any longer." 

"I wondered," she confesses. Mary hesitates a long moment, debating whether or not to speak up. "I wonder, too, if we are unable to have children...if things will go back to the way things were between us. You, bitter and angry and trying to push me away."

Matthew turns quickly to look at her. With all the people around, she won't let herself cry, but it's difficult not to. She's sure he sees it. 

"Oh, my darling," he breathes. "Of course not. That was...I was trying to do what I thought was right, then."

"But you've been blaming yourself for not being able to have a baby," she replies. "How long will we be without one before you're waving divorce papers in my face and demanding that I leave you before my child-bearing years are over?"

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't see much of a difference between then and now. Part of me feels that I must keep you happy in all things or lose my marriage."

Matthew opens his mouth to respond when the horn sounds, calling an end to the first drive. 

She decides to accompany Papa for the second drive.

* * *

The weather cools considerably as the day wears on, and Mary is able to slip away before dinner for a hot bath. 

Perhaps, in part, she's hoping to avoid Matthew for as long as possible. 

No such luck. 

Anna is helping her comb out her wet hair when there's a knock on the door. Matthew, still in his tweed though he's shed his jacket, appears in the doorway, and asks Anna for a minute to speak to his wife alone. 

Mary takes the brush and busies herself while Anna slips out the door. 

"You've been avoiding me," he says simply.

She sighs, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Can you blame me?"

"Did you really mean those things that you said? Or were you trying to hurt me?"

"Of course I meant it," she replies fiercely, turning on her seat to face him. "Don't start a row with me now, we should be dressing for dinner."

"We have time," he argues. "And we're not having a row. Do you really think that I would abandon you? If we can't have a baby, if I'm the slightest bit unhappy? That I would...would _wave divorce papers in your face?_ "

"That isn't what I said, not exactly," she defends, though she knows it's fairly close. "But you were injured, thought you couldn't have children, and spent months desperate to chase me away. And what happens if this is real, if even now we can't have a baby? I don't think it's completely mad to wonder if you will be forcing me away just like you did then. And what does that mean for me? Having to wait with baited breath to see if I am able to give you what you desperately want, whatever it may be, or face the ruin of my marriage? It terrifies me!"

"I would never...this isn't like that!"

"Isn't it?" she demands. "I'm not sure that it's not."

"I've apologized, Mary. Again and again for the way I behaved. You...you expressed concern over Mr. Pamuk resurrecting himself every time we argued, well I don't want my own mistakes thrown back in my face, either."

"I'm not throwing them in your face," she snaps. "I'm telling you how I feel. What I'm  _afraid_ of. You were miserable with what you saw that you couldn't have and you sought to 'free' me despite my constant protests. And now, if we can't have a child...if you can't have the child we both want so desperately? What then, Matthew? I can't bear for you to sink into despair again and push me away with cruel words and black moods. I'm not strong enough. If you do it again, I very well might do as you ask and leave."

They're left without words, both panting and sizing one another up, waiting for the next words, whenever someone can bear to speak again. There's a knock at the door, and Mary breaks the staring match first, pretending to busy herself at her table while Matthew answers it. 

"I'm terribly sorry," Anna says softly. "But Lord and Lady Grantham have both gone to their rooms to change. Dinner won't be long, now."

"What are we going to do about my hair, Anna?" she says before Matthew can dismiss her. She watches in the mirror as he glances at her before slipping past Anna and out the door. 

* * *

Mary leaves instructions with Anna not to come up until she's called and then locks her bedroom door before going to bed. 

She thinks she hears Matthew try it before realising it's locked. He doesn't knock. 

The next morning, when she does dress and have breakfast, she has to gather her wits before she goes downstairs. Who knows who might be down with Matthew, she doesn't want them all to know they've been fighting. 

It's Matthew and Papa in the library, at least, when she pokes her head in to see them. Robert smiles, and she is relieved that he doesn't seem worried about them. Matthew tries to keep his cool, though he does look rather glumly at her. 

"Sorry, Mary, I've pulled him into business, again, though we have made a deal not to do business on Saturday and Sunday unless anything urgent comes up. I'll release him to you, then."

"No," she says quickly. "I mean, I won't be here. I'm going to London tomorrow morning, didn't I say? Mama knows. I'm taking the train with Aunt Rosamund."

"Why?" Robert asks. "I know she's got a new beau, but surely supervision isn't necessary."

She fakes a laugh. "I should say not. Just running errands. I'll be back Sunday evening at the latest, you'll barely notice I'm gone." Mary smiles cheerily and announces that she'll leave them to their business before walking quickly out of the library, eager to escape. 

"Were you going to slip away to London without telling me?" Matthew asks later her in the afternoon after he's cornered her in her bedroom. She'd just run up for a handkerchief, which means he had certainly been watching her, waiting to catch her alone. She sighs. 

"I've had this planned for a week. I don't sneak about like a thief in the night to avoid you."

He purses his lips. "I'm having memories of when you went to London for two weeks to get away from us and wouldn't take calls."

"I don't run away from every fight. I'm made of stronger stuff than that," she says dryly. "What do you want, Matthew?"

"You locked your door last night."

"I'm aware. I wasn't ready for another row."

He sits down on the edge of the mattress. "I want to _talk_ about this, Mary."

"I don't, particularly. What is there to say? You don't think there's any validity in my concerns and think I'm being cruel by throwing your mistakes back into your face."

He closes his eyes. "I was upset, Mary. Of course I was. You cannot spring something like that on me and then take my initial reaction as gospel. I needed time to think."

"And?" she asks. "Has twenty-four hours completely changed your mind?"

"Don't pick at me, not when I'm trying to discuss this." 

She glances down at her shoes. "You're right, I'm sorry. Go on."

"I'm angry and ashamed that you have such little trust in me. I'm your husband, I would lay down my life for you, Mary, and be happy to do so. But I do understand...I do understand how you might feel this way after what's gone on between us. I've driven you away with my behaviour before. But you have to understand what a horrible time that was for me. I was in a dark place. A very dark place. I thought often about...about if I would take my own life, if given the opportunity. Those first months, I'm not sure that I would have said no. "

"This isn't terribly reassuring."

"While things got better, I was still terribly depressed. I thought that I would send you away and that you would be grateful for it, and then it would just be confirmation that I was undesirable. I was determined to miserable. I wanted to wallow."

She blinks back tears. "And you won't be in that same dark place if we can't have children?"

Mattew stands and crosses the room to hold the sides of her face in his hands. "I would be heartbroken. Of course I would. I want children very much, but they are one part of my life. I have so many other wonderful parts to be grateful for. If...if the worst happens and it isn't meant for us, I will want you with me. To grieve with me. If you wanted to leave, Mary, I wouldn't refuse. But I would beg you to reconsider. To stay with me." 

She pulls away enough to embrace him, burying her face into his shoulder. "I want to believe you. So desperately."

"I have made mistakes. And it may be some time before you can trust me. But I have vowed to be loyal and faithful, and this is part of it."

"It certainly is," she comments dryly, clutching at the fabric of his jacket.

"You told me once that all you wanted was me and that everything good since has been a wonderful surprise. Well, I mean it when I say I feel the same. I have gained back my ability to become your husband in every sense, to feel your equal. Anything that happens from here on out will be a happy addition."

Mary isn't sure who starts it, but they're kissing fiercely, fingers digging into each other's hair, grabbing fistfuls of clothing to keep pressed together.

"God, Mary," he says, every few words interrupted by a kiss. "I'm sorry. I've put so much pressure on you, it isn't fair."

"You were hopeful," she says before he sweeps her in again. "We both were."

"I've been hovering about. Every time you see the doctor, every time I feel I have the slightest clue...I've been suffocating you. You must know how highly I think of you. How saintly you are to me, for marrying me when I felt less than worthless. Abandon you? Mary, I worship at your feet."

"You're being terribly dramatic," she tries to tease, as he presses kisses under her jaw. He gives her a mischievous look and then sinks to his knees. "Matthew, stop!"

He puts his palms to the floor and then bends to press his lips to the tip of her shoes. "I mean it." He moves to her ankle. "I'll do anything." 

"You're completely ridiculous." 

"But it's making you laugh, so it's worth being ridiculous."

She can feel rather than see his grin as he trails his hand up the inside of her leg, presses kisses against the outside, up her hip, across her chest, and up the side of her neck. 

"You're going to make me untidy."

"That was rather my intention," he admits, walking her backwards towards the bed.

"This doesn't erase it all," she says quickly, holding onto his lapels to keep from tipping back just yet. "I am going to worry at times."

"I've been thinking about something Mr. Bates said when he was attending to me after my injury," he says. "I told him that I was frustrated in your refusal to leave and was angry when you said you weren't swayed by my injury or that I couldn't give you children."

"And what did he say?"

Matthew kisses her softly. "He said that, as far as he saw it, when a couple marries they become one person. And that single person might not be able to have children."

She gives him a shy smile. "That's a rather comforting way to look at it."

"I think I agree. We are one person now, Mary. I couldn't separate from you and survive it. I need you." 

She throws her arms around his neck, grinning against his lips. "Don't worry, Darling. If you try to separate from me, I'll make _sure_ you don't survive it."

* * *

"Mary, you look as if you're in a trance. What were you doing in London? It's worn you out."

She snaps back to focus, rather embarrassed to see the whole table looking her way.

"A bit," she agrees half-heartedly, feeling far more worn-out than she's tried to look. "I'll try and rest tomorrow."

She retires as soon as she's able, a thrumming ache in the lower half of her body making the journey up the stairs no easy task. She's just slid into bed when Matthew joins her, shedding his dressing gown. 

"You're up early," she observes. 

"I'm tired myself with all this fighting about business," he sighs. "And I'm terribly glad you're back. Your Papa is a very stubborn man."

"I know. I'm surrounded by very stubborn men," she muses, playing with the tie around the end of her braid. 

His eyes glint as he crawls over to her side, hovering above her. "And you can give them all a run for their money. I'd prefer it if you gave Robert a run for  _his_ money, that's what we've been fighting about."

Matthew leans in to kiss her firmly, then again. 

"I'm so very glad you're back." 

Mary tilts her chin to break the kiss. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. You can kiss me, but that's it."

"Why? Haven't you missed me?"

She runs her fingers through his hair. "Desperately. But London seems to have tired me out."

He searches her face and, seeing no trace of desire there, kisses her chastely one last time before settling onto his own side of the mattress. She can tell he's disappointed, though he tries to hide it. But more than that, he's concerned. Perhaps suspicious. 

It isn't a conversation she's prepared to have right now. Instead, she bids him goodnight and turns out the lights.

* * *

Mary is distant for the following weeks. 

She's kind and affectionate as ever, and seems more than happy to bicker and trade barbs with Edith in good humour. 

But when he crawls into bed beside her, she gives him a chaste kiss and then immediately turns to snuff the lamp. She doesn't roll back over. 

He doesn't push her. If she's still lacking trust in him and wants her distance, he won't push or bully her. He'll wait until she's ready. But it hurts him to be apart from her. They hadn't gone this long since they've been married. 

Perhaps things were more serious than he realised. Perhaps, despite talking things through, their marriage was far more damaged than he once thought. Sex isn't the only joy their marriage brought him, but he desperately hopes this isn't a sign of a decline to come. 

Even worse, perhaps Mary was distant because she had no desire to be intimate with him any longer. Perhaps, in facing the reality of not being able to have children with him, Mary is starting to regret their marriage. Perhaps he has proven to be a disappointment again and again and again, and Mary now finds herself losing her attraction to a man who is unable to provide for her. 

After much internal debate, he books an appointment with a fertility specialist in London. 

Without much intimacy between them, it certainly doesn't seem necessary just yet. But perhaps, if they find something wrong, it can be something tactile they can work with rather than just facing a lifetime of anticipation. Or, if something can be solved and they can move on from this, he can win back her affection.

He wants to come to her with facts, not hypotheticals. Mary would tell him it's the lawyer in him.

"I'll write to you as soon as I hear," Dr. Ryder tells him after the examination, motioning for him to sit across the desk. "It's extremely unlikely there is anything wrong at all. This may prove an expensive journey for you."

"My peace of mind is worth the cost, I assure you. I can't bear to think of my wife being worried when I know very well that if anyone's to blame, it's me."

"I'm not sure blame is a very useful concept in this area," Dr. Ryder informs him. "Please believe me that probability and logic indicate a Crawley baby yowling in its crib before too long."

He's still uneasy, but his relief is palpable. 

He descends the stairs of the offices, mind drifting to not so long ago when he'd never have been able to make the journey to London alone. Wouldn't have even been able to go up and down these steps. Then again, if that were the case, he'd have no reason to be here at a fertility specialist. 

"Mrs. Levinson for Dr. Ryder," a familiar voice says to the receptionist, and he nearly trips in surprise. Mary seems to sense his presence and turns, her own expression turning from surprised to guilty. 

"What on earth-"

"Just...let me get through this appointment," she interrupts him when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. "Please. I'll explain it all later."

"But you will explain it. Mary, I told you that if something's wrong-"

"Mrs. Levinson," a nurse calls, and she shoots him a warning look before following the woman up the stairs. 

Matthew stares after her for a moment before going to find a seat. He'd been letting her keep her distance for some time, but he is desperate for answers, now. He won't let her brush him off. 

* * *

They find a nearby restaurant after her appointment, and their conversation is nearly non-existent until coffee is served and the waiter disappears. Matthew doesn't want to push, but he's fidgety and nervous. He needs to know. 

"Why did you go without saying when I knew all along it was me?" he blurts when she remains steadily silent. Her cool composure in all things is something he often finds terribly attractive, but the inability to read her can come with frustration, too. 

"You know nothing of the sort," she replies calmly, stirring cream into the cup. "In fact...it was me."

She says no more, and he treads cautiously forward. "What do you mean?"

"There was something wrong with..." she purses her lips together and sighs. "Actually, I can't talk about this sort of thing. Even to you."

"You sound like Robert," he muses, and she smiles. 

"Well, I am his daughter. The fact is, it meant a small operation."

_"What?"_

"It's alright!" she soothes. "It was weeks ago. That's why I've been keeping you at arm's length."

He deflates at the news, and she looks at him questioningly. Sheepishly, he's forced to admit, "I thought you'd gone off me."

Mary slides her foot to rest over his under the table. Comforting. "Today was just to see if all is well. He says it is and I'm to get in touch with him in six months' time, but that I'll be pregnant before then."

He lets out a burst of air at the news, wishing so very much to be able to grab her hand. Kiss her.

"Did you really think I'd gone off you?" she asks, raising a brow. "It's not as though I banished you from my side."

"I know," he assures. "I just...after the row we had...you went to London that weekend and when you returned, you seemed distant. I thought perhaps you were glad of the break from me and were disappointed to have to return."

She shakes her head fondly. "Honestly, Matthew, what must I do to prove my devotion?"

"It's just me. You've done more than anyone has ever done for their husband. But why did you keep it a secret?"

"To admit to you that I was seeing a specialist was to admit that I was concerned about it, too. I didn't want you to know I was worried, it would only cause you more guilt."

He sighs. "Darling, you know you don't need to keep secrets to protect me. That hasn't gone well for us, historically."

"I won't any longer," she vows. "This was just so important to us both, I wanted to handle it carefully." 

"I've handled this poorly. In so many ways. And I'm sorry."

"I do know it's out of desire to make me happy," she promises, and he relaxes again. 

"Thank you. I hope you know how grateful I am. You've put yourself through a great deal for me, I don't deserve it." 

She shakes her head and reaches across the table to rest her hand over his. "I love you, Matthew. I always know that we'll figure it out, whatever comes. Surely we've been tested more than most couples, and we've survived this far."

* * *

"Is there anyone I should dance with particularly?" Matthew asks, stepping into the library where Robert has sequestered himself. 

The stress of the last year has settled enormously, and in the few months since seeing Dr. Ryder in London, Matthew has started to feel like they are a normal married couple rather than one soaked in grief. Christmas has come and gone, and the news that Sybil is pregnant has brought only a twinge of longing rather than a tidal wave of jealousy. Mary had taken his hand and squeezed it, sending him a pointed look.  _It's only a matter of time until it's our turn._

Besides, Bates' trial and conviction had made them rethink their position as the unluckiest couple in the world. The reprieve of his sentence had come only hours ago, and the servants' ball was suddenly back on with only hours to prepare.

"Well," Robert sighs, pouring them each a stiff drink, "Cora opens it with Carson."

"Not Cousin Violet?"

"Not since my father died. Mama ought to dance with my valet, but we let it lapse while Bates was here. Perhaps Thomas will revive the privilege."

"He's certainly got the nerve," Matthew smirks.

"Then I join in with Mrs. Hughes. So perhaps it would be nice if you were to partner O'Brien."

Ah. "Crikey."

It isn't as bad as he anticipates. O'Brien is an adept dancer, and is nothing but polite and cordial, though he's careful not to say anything that might end up as fuel for the fire downstairs. He suspects she's rather a difficult woman to get along with, when she wants to be. 

He catches Mary later on the side of the room, watching fondly as two of the younger staff try to waltz about the room.

"What about it?" he asks her, holding out a hand, and she smiles.

"Why not?"

They dance the next three sets, and he's in the middle of relaying the latest battle between Isobel and Violet when she suddenly stills. 

"Darling? Are you quite alright?"

"Fine," she replies, holding a hand to her chest. "I'm just feeling a little light-headed. I might step out for some air."

Before he can offer to escort her, she pats his chest reassuringly and then scurries from the room. 

He gives her a few minutes and then follows, coming out to see her out in the snow without a coat, wiping her lips with a handkerchief.

"Were you sick just now?" he asks her, worried. "I didn't think you'd had much to drink."

"I haven't," she replies, smiling despite her pale face. 

He sighs. "It's freezing out here. Why don't you go to bed? If you're coming down with something, you should rest."

Her smile is more genuine, now, as she pats his arm. "Please don't worry. I was overheated in there, I'm glad to be out where it's cool. Just give me a moment. I hope I didn't cause a stir."

"Not at all," he promises. "You were quite discrete, though I suspect Carson might have been concerned. Everyone else has likely had too much to drink to notice otherwise. There will be a few thick heads in the morning."

"No doubt they think it's worth it."

"Hm." He stares with her out into the dark grounds, the snowfall making it even harder to see. It was surprising, in a way, how much had changed for them in the last years while Downton remained the same. 

"I was just thinking. January, 1920. More than seven years since we first met. It hardly seems that long."

"It seems a lifetime to me," she replies. "I can't imagine my life without you, now. It all seems like a dream before you arrived."

"We've certainly been through a lifetime's worth of events," he muses. "I'd do it all over again. I wouldn't change a thing. Well, I would have been far kinder to you after my injury and married you as soon as we'd been able to, but I suppose it's easy to say that, knowing what I do now."

"I'm glad to hear you don't regret it."

"How could I?" He holds out his hands for her, and she takes them, letting him pull her into an embrace. "I've been a fool many times over. But I have done something right."

"And what's that?" she smiles. 

"I proposed to you." 

She beams at him, brushing his hair away from his face. 

"And now that it's a new year, I want to start afresh. I have you. A wonderful family. A beautiful place to live, despite all of my feuds with Robert over estate management. I am so enormously grateful for it all. I'll never ask for anything again."

"Yes, you will," she says, trying to hold back a smile. "And you're going to get it, too. How nice it will be, that babies Crawley and Branson will be so close in age."

He grabs her arms firmly, suddenly feeling light-headed himself. "You don't mean..."

"I do. I hope you haven't changed your mind, because it's too late for that now."

"My God," he cries, kissing her firmly. They slide together like puzzle pieces. "Are you sure?"

"I'm quite sure. I've been keeping it a secret for ages, just in case. You can ask Dr. Clarkson if you don't believe me. I've been waiting for the right time to tell you."

A laugh bursts from his lips and he wraps his arms around her waist, sweeping her right off of the ground.

She's laughing, her arms are thrown around his neck as he spins her. Now, he thinks. Now he'll never ask for anything again.


	12. Heir

"I do wish you would rest."

Mary rolls her eyes. "I wish you wouldn't worry so terribly much about my every move. I doubt Papa hovered this much when Mama was having us."

"I think the less your papa knew about medical detail, the happier he was," Matthew responds. 

Isobel pats Mary's hand. "Honestly, Matthew. We went on a walk of the grounds, not the Tour de France. She should be up and walking. It's healthy for her."

With less than two months to go until the birth, Matthew is growing increasingly protective and excitable. It's maddening, sometimes, but he's been terribly eager, and she finds it too charming to be really annoyed by. 

"See? Listen to your mother," she smirks, rising up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "You're not in the library. Should I assume you and Papa had a row and you had to step out to keep from shouting?"

Matthew sighs. "We lost a lot of money with the railway bankruptcy. At least Robert did listen and moved his investments around before it happened. I summoned Murray to come up and try to talk some sense into him, but that sent him into an uproar."

Mary pats his arm. "And so you're in hiding."

"The point is, we're skating on thin ice. We don't have the time or the money to just sit back and let things carry on as they were. If we're to secure a future here for ourselves and for our children..."

His hand falls to the child in question, and Mary rests her hand over his. "I know it's terribly frustrating, but he will come around. He always does."

"I just hope it isn't too late. Plenty of families are moving into smaller homes. We're on the verge of becoming one of them."

"Someday, we'll be Earl and Countess of Grantham. And in my mind, the Earl and Countess of Grantham live at Downton Abbey. You'll figure it out. I know you will. And you'll win Papa over."

Matthew grumbles, but lets her kiss his cheek again. "I do hope you're right. But if you feel that way, I need you on my side."

She sighs. "He'll feel as though we're ganging up on him."

"We have to, if we're going to stay here," he says simply. "I'm not power-hungry. If the estate was being run in a sustainable way, I would prefer to barely be involved at all."

"I do know that," she promises. "As I said, we'll figure it out. Now I really do hate to admit it, but I would like to lay down."

"Because you're tired or because you don't want to continue this conversation?"

"That would be telling."

He sighs at her, but kisses her cheek and releases her. Matthew watches her trail up the stairs and then disappear before steeling himself to return to the library. 

* * *

Dinner that night is uncomfortable. 

The tension between Matthew and Robert is palpable, and the rest of the dinner party desperately attempts to cover. 

"Have you two settled on any names for the baby, yet?" Cora asks lightheartedly, and Mary only sighs. 

"I'm afraid not. There are so many people to consider, aren't there? We want to honour Matthew's father, of course. But there are grandparents, parents, godparents to consider. It's no wonder couples have so many children, the baby can't possibly have twenty middle names."

Matthew smiles. "Perhaps we'll just have to see him or her first, see what suits."

"Him or her," Edith repeats with a roll of her eyes towards her sister. "Mary always talks like she knows it's a boy."

"It would certainly put my mind at rest," Robert speaks up, and Matthew is quick to step in. 

"This is only the first. I'll be equally pleased either way. We have plenty of time for a girl and a boy."

"Or multiples of each," Cora teases, and Mary huffs, resting her hand on her abdomen. 

"Let's not get carried away."

"Did you write to the paper?" Matthew asks suddenly, turning to Edith. He's rather desperate to change the topic from the pressures of producing an heir. "About the women's suffrage here?"

"I did," she says, sitting up straighter. "I know they won't publish it, but I'm glad I tried." Matthew can't help but be proud of her pleasure. Being jilted at the altar just a few months ago had knocked the stuffing out of her completely. He was enormously pleased that she'd found something to do, even if Robert does sigh pointedly from across the table. 

"You should be glad. Between you and Sybil, I'm sure any daughter of mine will have the full right to vote. If the Crawley sisters can't get something done, we haven't a hope."

Robert sighs again. "I wish you wouldn't encourage her. Honestly, look where Sybil ended up."

"I'm not about to run away with Carson, Papa, I just wrote a letter."

Carson's grunt of surprise has Matthew smothering his laughter into his glass. 

"Speaking of letters, I've written one to Sir Philip Tapsell. He's agreed to deliver the baby. He has a practice on Harley Street. Comes highly recommended."

"But..." Matthew pauses. "Surely Dr. Clarkson is perfectly suited...having a man come from London sounds like a needless expense given-"

"You cannot seriously be prioritising money over the health and safety of your wife," Robert roars across the table, and Matthew bites back a groan of frustration. So much for a relaxing evening. 

"Of course not. I just mean to say that it...Dr. Clarkson-"

"Perhaps this isn't appropriate dinner-time conversation," Cora soothes, and Matthew nearly cries out in relief. This isn't the end of it, he's sure, but at least it saves them tension and embarrassment for the rest of the night, though Matthew isn't sure Robert feels much embarrassment at all for his outbursts. 

* * *

"How did it go?"

Matthew makes a mournful sound and flops down onto the bed, mumbling. 

"I can't understand you with your face pressed against the mattress like that."

He sighs and lifts his head. "Javis resigned."

"My God! What have you done?"

Matthew groans. "He's gone. And I'm going to have to make it all work. Or I've had it."

She sighs, reaching out her hand for him, and he gratefully rises to kneel beside her at her dressing table, palms laying against her stomach. "I suspect Papa wasn't pleased with you."

"I know he wasn't But I know I'm right in this, Mary. I believe that I can make Downton safe for our children. I need you with me. Say you're on my team."

"Being on your team would mean being against Papa. I do love him too, you know."

"I know you do. I want you to. But I need you to  _believe_ in me. Please."

She rests her hands along his chair and pulls him in for a kiss, leaning forward as much as she's able. "Of course I do. If we must be at war with Papa, I don't think the timing could be better. If we give him a grandson, he'll be too pleased to quarrel."

"If we give him a grand _daughter,_ he'll be equally pleased. Or should be. I'll be too pleased to quarrel either way. Ever again, I think." 

"I'll remind you of that when I scratch your car."

He laughs. "Please do. I know I've been rather stressed of late, Mary, but I hope you know how very happy I am. How very happy you've made me. For all of the tension, this has been the happiest year of my life. And it will only get better." 

"I'll remind you of  _that_ when Papa loses his head and you're angry with him."

"I'd expect no less." He leans in for another kiss eagerly. "Though I do hope when he sees the baby and everything I've been fighting for, it makes him bend a bit."

"A miracle in and of itself. Just promise me that when you must be firm with him, you'll remember that the two of you both want the same thing, which is what is best for Downton and this family. You just see it in two very different ways."

Matthew softens. "I will. You're entirely right, and I will."

"I usually am."

* * *

"Isobel says you've been pacing the floor like a caged tiger."

He smiles so brightly, it looks as though his cheeks might crack. "My God, can you blame me?" he rasps, cautiously stepping towards the bed. "Well...?"

"Say hello to your son and heir."

He sits, awestruck, on the mattress beside her, careful not to jolt her or their dozing infant. Gingerly, Mary shifts the boy into his waiting arms, watching him wriggle free of his blanket and wave a tiny fist in the air. 

"Hello, my dearest little chap," Matthew greets, beaming. Getting comfortable, he strokes a finger down the infant's plump cheek. "I wonder if he has any idea how much joy he brings with him?"

Mary reaches out to rest a hand on Matthew's knee, and he slides closer so she can see the boy more clearly. 

"Oh, my darling. How are _you?_ Really?"

"Tired, but terribly relieved to think we've done our duty."

He grins up at her, misty-eyed. "Downton is safe." 

"I asked them not to tell. Perhaps it's rather dramatic, but I want to be the one to tell everyone it's a boy."

"Your Papa will dance a jig."

She smiles softly. "And how are you, after all of that worry?"

"Me? I feel like I swallowed a box of fireworks." Gently, so gently, he shifts the baby back into Mary's arms before sidling up beside her so they can both watch him. "Oh, Mary. You're going to be such a wonderful mother."

She swells with pride, but is reluctant to confess she isn't so sure. She isn't gentle like Mama, or instinctively nurturing like Sybil. She thought herself too hard, too cold. "How do you know?"

"Because...because you're such a wonderful woman. A year and a half ago I was the most miserable man who had ever lived. And you fought tooth and nail for me, to pull me out of my despair. And now I have everything I have ever dreamed of. You've given me everything I could have ever wanted. How could such a woman not be an extraordinary mother? This little chap will never worry about a thing, with you in his corner."

"You sound rather foreign. Shouldn't you be saying, 'You'll be up and about in no time?'"

He laughs softly, turning and tilting his chin to press a kiss against her forehead, then her lips. "I'll do all that tomorrow. But right now, I want to tell you that I fall more in love with you every day that passes."

She pauses, leaning her head against his shoulder. Despite the horrible ache of her body, her heart is so full it's nearly painful. How could anyone love so much?

"I hope I'm allowed to be your Mary Crawley for all eternity and not Edith's version. Or anyone else's, for that matter."

"You'll always be mine. Mine is the true Mary." 

She isn't sure how long they sit there, basking in the sight of their new son. Matthew, eventually, straightens his posture, though he looks pained to move away. "I should let the rest of them in, they must be bursting. Tapsell will want to examine you again, I'm sure, and then I'll have to drive him to the train station."

"Oh, please, let someone else drive him. I just want the two of us to be able to be in our home, uninterrupted, with our new son before we have to get back to business."

He looks a bit reluctant, but nods, leaning across the bed to kiss her again. "Alright. How can I say no, today of all days? I'll have a car arranged for him."

"Thank you. I don't ask you for much, after all."

"Beyond demanding that I marry you and refusing to take no for an answer?"

"Beyond that," she grins. "Though it's turned out rather well for you, I think."

"'Well' doesn't even begin to describe what a lucky man I am. Now, surely you'll let me travel at least as far as the corridor. Mother's holding them all at bay, but they're all panting to see you. Both of you."

"I'm glad I had some time with just you, at first."

"I wanted a chance to be alone. With my family," he confesses, grinning down at the baby in her arms, who has again fallen asleep. 

She smiles. "You'd better go and tell them."

"Right!" he remembers, smiling at her once again before ducking out the door. 


	13. Fugitives

As soon as he steps into the room, Mary sits bolt upright, reaching for the lamp. 

"Tell me. Is it awful?"

Matthew sighs, shedding his dressing gown and crawling into bed. "You should be asleep."

"Asleep? After Sybil's been run out of the country? I want to strike Branson, I certainly don't want to sleep."

He rolls towards her, resting his hand against her abdomen, still swollen after George's birth. The thought of Mary, a fugitive trying to escape the country in the dead of night, afraid and pregnant...the very idea makes him shudder. 

"Tom and Sybil have both gone to bed. She's completely exhausted. Understandably," Matthew tells her. "Robert is going to ring Murray first thing in the morning to try and keep Branson out of jail."

"It's horrid," Mary says, leaning into his side. "How could he do something like this? The Drungores are like us. She came out with me, she was Laura Dunsaney then. How could he _dance '_ round their burning house? It's horrible."

"Don't get excited," he pleads with her. "Please. You've just given birth, you should be resting."

"A week ago is not  _just._ And Sybil is about to give birth and she's the one going through all of this! Tom has put her through all of this!"

"Just give them a chance to breathe. I'm sure Sybil herself is in a fit about this, but she'll only get riled up trying to defend him if you attack him. That isn't what she needs." 

"Spoken like a defender of the downtrodden," she huffs. 

"Spoken like a spouse and a father," he replies firmly. "The baby will come, chaos or not. Let's not put any more stress on her shoulders."

"I hate how calm you are about this."

He sighs, sidling up against her. "Don't be fooled. I'm enraged. I liked Tom. Or I thought I did. What he has done to that family, what he has done to Sybil...I don't know if I'll ever forgive him. But regardless, Sybil is your sister, and therefore mine. I want her to be well. I'd be positively sick if you had been where she is now, pregnant and having to flee for her life."

Mary closes her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder. "What a dreadful mess."

"He was sorry. I could tell he meant it. When he saw what it actually was, when he watched the Drungores' home burning...he said he was sorry." 

"He'd better be," she says fiercely. "How could anyone not be?"

"I just mean we should be glad he isn't rejoicing over it and spitting at our feet. It isn't much, but it's something redeeming." 

"You're trying to keep me from boiling over." 

"I am _trying_ ," he replies, "to keep you relaxed and healing. I used to be the peacekeeper of this family, before Robert and I started butting heads. I'd like to hold onto that as much as possible." 

* * *

"I can never go back to Ireland? That's impossible!" Tom cries the next day, pale and on edge. 

"If you do," Robert argues, "you'll be put in prison. It's the best I could manage."

Mary has joined them despite Matthew's protests and sits at her husband's side. She's still tired, and aches terribly, but the pains aren't nearly as sharp or strong as they were right after the birth. 

Matthew has kept very silent during this conversation, and she admires him for it. A defender of the downtrodden he may be, but he knows his place. 

"You didn't tell me that he attended Dublin meetings where the attacks on the Anglo-Irish were planned," Robert accused, and Mary feels faint. 

"I was always against any personal violence. I swear it."

Violet sniffs. "Oh, so at least we can sleep in our beds."

They continue to argue, and Mary finds herself reaching for Matthew's hand. Her emotions have been rather unpredictable since George's birth, and she finds herself quite unable to keep her mask of composure so firmly in place, these days. 

When the conversation seems to die, Mary stands gingerly, trying very desperately not to wince. "Sybil, Darling, let's put you to bed. You need to rest."

"I should stay here," she protests, though the news of Tom's involvement doesn't have her eager to jump in and defend him, either. 

"We promise we won't eat him alive," she says pointedly. "He can handle himself. You've made a big sacrifice in uprooting for all of this, he can give you this time to take care of yourself and the baby." 

Pale-faced, Tom nods in agreement. "Of course. Go rest."

Mary offers her sister a hand, helping to pull her up from the sofa. "We'll sort it out. It will all turn out in the end, you'll see," she soothes once they exit the library.

"How could he?" Sybil whispers as Mary leads her gently up the stairs. "How could he do this, and keep it from me?"

"I don't know," Mary admits. "But you're here now. Tom can't take you back to Ireland and risk being arrested, not now, at least. Which means you are here and you are safe. The both of you."

Sybil squeezes her hand as Mary helps her into bed. "This isn't what I wanted. I so desperately thought that I could win you over on Tom. But now that's lost forever. You all will hate him."

"Hush," Mary informs her. "None of us are pleased right now, and you can't blame us for that. You'll have to let us be angry about it for a while. But Matthew has never hated anyone in his life. Except perhaps a suitor I had during the war." 

She rolls her eyes fondly, and Sybil smiles at last. 

"And if Matthew can forgive him, he'll convince me, too. And then Edith, but perhaps only because she loves you dearly. And then Mama. And finally, Papa will be so outnumbered that he'll have to give in. You'll see."

"You're so very generous," Sybil says with a small smile. "You and Edith. You've been so wonderful with Tom. I know he's disappointed you. He's disappointed me. But he is a good man at heart. Please believe me."

Mary sighs and sits on the edge of her bed. "I want to. Really I do. I just have yet to see it." 

"Papa won't throw us out, will he?"

"Darling," Mary replies, reaching for her hand. "Papa would never cast you out, especially not on the cusp of giving birth and no where else to go. And what he does for Tom he does for you. It certainly isn't for Tom's sake. He is angry with you both, but he'd never despise you. As I said, you'll be safe and warm here. That's the most important thing."

* * *

It's not three weeks later that they're all roused in the middle of the night by the starts of Sybil's pains. Dr. Clarkson is called, and they convene in Sybil's room, Branson and Matthew waiting out in the hall. 

The men spring to attention when the party leaves Sybil's room, and Clarkson tells them all that he'll return in the morning and to go back to their beds for the night. 

Tom half-jogs back to the room to check on his wife, and as the crowd disperses, Mary lingers by Matthew's side, bidding them all goodnight. 

"Is he panting with fear?" she jokes, and Matthew smiles at her. 

"He's handling it better than I did, I'm sure." 

She smiles warmly at him, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Papa is quite determined to have Sir Philip Tapsell up again to deliver the baby."

"Hm. He was competent enough, but he was a bit arrogant." 

"I suppose with a knighthood he feels entitled to be," she sighs as Matthew leads her back to bed. "Though now that he's called Dr. Clarkson in for this, it only seems fair that he be used, instead."

"I suppose they could both oversee her. With all of the upset of the last month, I'm sure double the expertise wouldn't be such a terrible thing."

"I'm sure Tom won't mind. As long as you're there to hold his hand."

He laughs. "Poor fellow. He's so terrified, and so thrilled at the same time. As I was. And will be again, I'm sure."

"Someone told me it's easier after the first one. Though I'm not sure if they were talking about my part or yours."

"Let's hope yours. I've caused you enough worry for a lifetime, I think it's my turn to be a bit uncomfortable."

She smiles, reaching across the bed for him. "I should say so. Though you do know I don't wish to punish you."

* * *

"It's my belief that Lady Sybil is at risk of eclampsia," Dr. Clarkson declares, looking quite severe. They have all gathered in the library, are all frantic with worry. 

"What is that?" Robert asks. 

"A rare condition from which she is  _not_ suffering," Tapsell dismisses. 

"Tell him why you think she may be," Cora says to Clarkson. 

He sighs. "Her baby is small, she is confused, and there is far too much albumen-that is, protein-in her urine."

Mary looks up at Matthew, seeing the rather lost look in his eyes. He had been so worried, and her labour had progressed smoothly. How must Tom feel in all of this?

"The fact remains," Clarkson begs, "if I am right, we must act at once."

"And do what?" Mary cries. 

"Get her down to the hospital, and deliver the child by caesarean section."

"It would expose mother and child to untold danger!" Tapsell roars, and Mary wants to bury her face in her hands and weep. How much more could possibly go wrong? "She could pick up any  _kind_ of infection in a public hospital."

"An immediate delivery is the only chance of avoiding the fits brought on by the trauma of a natural birth! It may not work, but-"

"Honesty at last," snarls Tapsell. "Even if she were at risk from eclampsia, which she is  _not,_ a caesarean is a gamble which might kill either or both of them."

Robert sighs. "I think we must support Sir Philip in this."

"But it's not our decision!" Mary cries. "What does Tom say?"

"Tom has not hired Sir Philip," Robert snaps. "He is not master here, and I will not put Sybil at risk on a whim!"

Mary stands. "I'm telephoning Isobel."

The entirety of the room rolls their eyes at her. 

"When is the last time you gave birth?" she asks, turning on Robert, then Clarkson, then Tapsell. "Or you? Or you? Isobel is a nurse and a mother. And a grandmother, might I add. I am telephoning her now to see what she says. And then we are going upstairs  _immediately_ afterwards and giving Tom all of the information so he can decide."

The last time she's used her military-like tone was with Matthew, when he was injured and had sunken into a depression. It certainly was affective. 

Without waiting for a response, she spins on her heel and marches from the room and towards the telephone. 

* * *

Any hopes they have of keeping civil have evaporated. The entire house has dissolved into chaos. 

"If she has the operation now, do you swear you can save her?" Tom begs, looking as though he's drowning. 

"I cannot swear it, no," Clarkson denies. "But if we do not operate, and I am right about her condition, then she will die."

"Lord Grantham," Tapsell shouts, "can you please take command?"

"Dr. Clarkson is not sure he can save her, Sir Philip is certain she is fine," Robert starts, and Mary cannot bear it. 

"Tom," she pleads, grabbing him firmly by the arms. "No one is  _sure._ No one can be. Papa wants her to stay, and Mama wants her to go. You have two doctors that disagree, but I have rung Isobel and she also thinks it better to bring Sybil in for a caesarian immediately." 

"And what about you?" he croaks. "You've just had a baby. If it was you...?"

"If it was me," she repeats, feeling sick just at the thought. "Dr. Clarkson has been wrong in the past, but he knows us. If it was me...if I were to choose on which side to risk my life, I'd rather it be with action than with inaction. Trying to save her and failing is better than risk not doing anything and have it be too late."

Tom shakes with repressed sobs. "You agree with Cora, then?"

"I do. Tom, I do. There are four women here who have actually had children. Granny is unsure, but myself, Mama, and Cousin Isobel all agree with Clarkson."

"We can't wait any longer," Clarkson pleads. "Another hour and it will be too late."

At last, Tom nods. "Take her to the hospital," he begs, and they all spring into action. 

Moaning and delirious, Sybil is loaded into a waiting car, Tom and Cora by her side with Clarkson in the front with the driver. The tires throw gravel as it tears from the driveway. 

Tapsell has thrown a fit and disappeared despite Matthew's protests, and Robert is livid. "He is the best doctor in London! If she dies, it will be our fault!"

"If she dies, it will be because we tried to save her," Mary argues, standing firm. "Tom asked our advice, Papa. Mama might not fight with you, but I will."

Robert storms down the hall and slams the door of his bedroom behind him. It's then that Mary realises how badly she's shaking. 

She turns, and Matthew is there immediately, swooping in to hold her up. She'd entirely forgotten he was there. 

"Mary," he breathes as she clings to his shirt, feeling as though she's about to collapse.

"He's right," she gasps. "If Sybil dies, if I've steered him wrong-"

"Then you all will know that you did everything that you could for her," Matthew interrupts. "You were so brave, Mary. So very, very brave and I am so very proud of you. Standing up to Cousin Robert is no easy task, especially when he is backed by a professional. Believe me, I know. I am so proud of you."

"I shouldn't have interfered. It wasn't my place. I wouldn't have said anything, I think, if not for..."

"If not for George," he replies. "You were right to say something, Mary. Two medical professionals screaming at one another from across the room isn't enough to make a decision. You've been through this, so has Cora, and Mother. You know Sybil. I think that matters."

"What if she dies, Matthew? I couldn't bear it. She's the only sister I have that doesn't drive me mad."

"They are doing everything they can for her," Matthew reminds her. "Mother or Cora will telephone the second they know anything. We'll go down and visit first thing tomorrow. It was..." he pauses for a long moment as though unsure of what to say. "I was a bit surprised when you called Mother, honestly."

"Were you?" Mary laughs humourlessly, pulling away enough to wipe her tears. "I don't see why. She's the first one I would have called if something had gone the slightest bit wrong with George. Not that it would have been necessary, when she was there with me the whole time."

Matthew manages a small smile. "It warms my heart to hear you say that. I know you two don't always see eye to eye..."

"Neither do me and Papa," Mary replies. "Isobel is my mother now, too, and I don't know where we'd be without her. She held me up when it felt as though my entire life was falling apart. I trust her with my life. And perhaps more dear, Sybil's life."

"I'd like to repeat that to her, if you wouldn't mind," he says softly. "I think she's been a bit afraid that-with the two of us living here with Robert and Cora-that she might be left out. Of our lives and George's. She'd never admit it, but she's made a few comments that make me wonder. I know this isn't the time to talk about this."

"It's a welcome distraction," she counters. "If she feels pushed out, she must tell us. Please ask her to. We may not always agree, but it seems the only people I really get on with don't know me very well anyway. When it really counts, I want her on my side. Always. Besides, she raised you, and I love you so terribly much. I should be glad for her to influence George."

Matthew leans down to kiss her chastely. "I'll be sure to let her know. I should telephone her to let her know they went to the hospital. I know she'll want to be there to help out in any way she can. Will you be alright if I go?"

Mary nods. "Hurry back."

"You should go back to bed and try to rest."

"I'll never be able to sleep," she replies shakily. "I'll be sick worrying about Sybil."

He brushes a strand of fallen hair from her forehead. "Why don't I ring for tea? We can sit on the sofa in the library until we get tired."

With one last, lingering kiss, he leaves her, standing alone and shaking in the middle of the corridor. 

* * *

"The baby's born," Edith announces, her ear still pressed against the telephone as they huddle around her in the entryway. "It's a girl. She's healthy, but a little small."

"What about Sybil?" Mary asks, Matthew squeezing her shoulder. 

Edith pauses, listening to Isobel talk. "She's alive. Clarkson says as the symptoms...progressed...that now he's sure it was eclampsia. So they did the right thing."

"But is she going to be  _okay?_ "

Edith clearly is far too concerned with Sybil to bother making a snarky reply. "She says she's still out. It's too soon to say definitively. She might have suffered some damage in waiting so long to operate." She pauses. "She'll telephone the moment anything changes."

Mary turns to clutch and Matthew's hand. "Not good news," she says to him with a sigh. 

"But not bad news, either," Matthew replies. "Mother doesn't sugar-coat, you know as well as I do. Sybil is alive, and taking her to the hospital was the right decision. Let us rejoice in that, at least." 

"I think we were already sure of that when instead of accompanying them to the hospital, Tapsell decided to stay and lick his wounds. I don't care about a knighthood. If his ego is more important than his patient, he isn't a very good doctor," Edith agrees, having hung up the receiver. 

"For once, I agree with Edith," Mary agrees. "I can't think about breakfast. We should go straight to the hospital."

"Please eat," Matthew begs. "You haven't had any rest, at least eat something. For my sake."

"Don't fuss."

"How could I not fuss? Especially after the night we've had. Please." 

Mary sighs, but nods. "I'll try. It's still early, tell Carson not to let them do anything elaborate. Something quick. And ask if they can put some bread or butter or something in a basket, we'll take it down to the hospital for the others. Oh, and be sure to tell him about Sybil. He won't think it proper to ask, but he'll be desperate to know." 

Matthew darts off to arrange breakfast, Edith disappears upstairs to pack some things for Sybil and the new baby, and Mary is left in the entryway with Robert, who has remained entirely tight-lipped the whole morning. 

"I'm sorry if you feel ignored and usurped, Papa, but I won't apologize for standing up for my own mind. If something had gone wrong when I was having George...all the doctors of Harley Street wouldn't have made a difference. I would trust myself only in the hands of my family."

"How could Tapsell have been so wrong?" he mourns quietly. "I brought him here to prevent exactly this."

"A knighthood doesn't guarantee perfection. I certainly know enough men and women with titles that have the intelligence of garden tools."

He sighs. "A man who is supposed to be the best there is was telling me there was nothing to worry about. It's what I wanted to hear, and so I believed him."

"Papa, I don't much believe in signs from God, but perhaps this is one of them."

"A sign of my incompetence?" Robert huffs. 

"A sign that what  _we_ want for Sybil isn't what's best for her. We don't approve of Tom, but even while she was in labour, she talked about how much she loves him, how good a man he is, how she didn't mind making sacrifices to be with him. Perhaps Harley Street doctors aren't for Sybil. Nor the rest of it."

He shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about this now. Today of all days."

"Just think about it. If only a little. She is alive, Papa. However much strife she has caused you, the alternative is too horrid to think about."

* * *

Mary is sure that her words don't have much impact on Robert, but Tom certainly does. 

The poor man is a mess. Sybil remains unconscious, and he alternates between weeping helplessly into his hands or pacing the floor. He won't eat, will barely sleep, and leaps up from his seat the moment Clarkson steps in to update them. 

"He certainly is concerned for her," Robert comments quietly as Tom stalks about the room like a caged animal. 

"He loves her," Matthew replies. "He loves her very much. Of course he's concerned for her. He's sick with grief." 

They take shifts, someone always there to remain by Tom's side. 

"This is my fault," he sobs. "The stress of what I've put her through. I've killed her."

Robert grunts, but Mary takes Tom's hand. "Dr. Clarkson said they don't know what causes eclampsia, Tom. There are plenty of women who have easy, calm pregnancies and still go through this. It is not your fault."

"She has to live," he chokes. "I can't bear to be without her."

On the second day, she does drift in and out of consciousness, but by nightfall, the fever has set in. Sybil is delirious, thrashing about and moaning all throughout the night and next day, her eyes fluttering and rolling. 

Mary has once again become a nurse, helping Isobel thrust cool towels under Sybil's arms and neck to keep the heat down. 

"Please rest," Matthew begs her. She's been here all day, and he immediately sheds his coat upon arriving and rolls up his shirtsleeves. "I'll take over from here and help Mother. You need to rest."

Mary has once again donned the familiar striped apron, a horrible reminder of the war. That those she love may be dying. "I can't. Not when she's like this."

"Darling, if you continue to push yourself you are going to get very ill and be of no use to Sybil at all. Please. Your mother and father have enough on their hands without two daughters so ill after giving birth." 

He kisses her forehead, and she concedes to defeat, going home to begrudgingly eat dinner and then go to bed. 

When the telephone rings that morning, they are all swept with dread. 

Sybil is not improving. They're going to operate again. 

"If some...tissue...is left inside, it could cause infection," Dr. Clarkson tries to explain in layman's terms, though he often isn't successful. "Or if there is some tissue death, that could contribute."

"Then do it," Tom rasps, Mary's hand on his shoulder. 

"I should warn you...if we must...if we find any issues and have to act drastically- though that might not be the case-I think it unlikely that she may be able to have more children."

Poor Sybil. Mary wants to cry. They all seem to sink further into grief. To her surprise, Tom lets out a sharp laugh. 

"My God!" he chokes. "Who cares about that? Just save her."

Tom tries to hold his daughter, but leaves the majority of the coddling up to the rest of them. Mary doesn't blame him. She's sure if Matthew died she might struggle to look at George. To be reminded of him. 

"Perhaps it's me," Mary says quietly as they wait, Matthew squeezing her hand tightly. "It's me, I'm cursed. You propose, I make a mess of things. We get engaged, you get injured. You heal, we can't have children. We have George, and now Sybil...perhaps I bring misery to everyone I love."

"Stop," Matthew says firmly. "You are not cursed. Tragedies happen every day, and so do miracles. It is too early to decide which one this is. You have healed every heartache in my life. You stood up for Sybil when the house dissolved into chaos, and she is still alive because of it."

There's nothing more to do than wait. 

She hates waiting. She had heard it so many times after Matthew's injury. Sybil herself had said it to Mary again and again as he lay there, unconscious.  _There's nothing to be done except wait, I'm afraid._

Sybil was the nurse. Sybil was good at this. She can't help but feel that if Sybil were the one tending to herself, she would have been better already. 


	14. Storm Braver

"How are you feeling?"

The room is dark, the curtains pulled over the windows. It's hard to believe it's such a bright, cheery day outside. 

"How was the christening?" Sybil asks monotonously from the bed. Mary's heart lurches, but she sits down on the bed beside her youngest sister. 

"Beautiful. I wish you could have been there. Papa held his tongue, even when they forced him to take a photograph with the priest, you would have been proud. I'm very pleased that Tom asked me to be the godmother. It was very sweet of him."

"He did mention something about that."

Despite several weeks since the birth of their daughter, Sybil has remained bedridden and in despair. She is ill, feeling dizzy and weak, and often plagued by searing headaches. Perhaps just as worrisome is her mood. She cries frequently and spends most of her time alone in her room, despite their attempts to coax her out. She often refuses to see her daughter, and if she does, holds her briefly before returning her to the nanny. 

Sybil, the most nurturing and warm person Mary knows, has no interest in her own daughter. 

"I had quite a tough time of it, after Matthew was born," Isobel defends when they discuss their concerns over dinner. "She'll come out of it. After such a traumatic experience, I'd say it's no surprise she's been so down."

Robert brings a doctor up from London to see Sybil in the hopes of bringing her out of her terrible sadness. The man informs them all that she should be institutionalised. Tom shouts himself hoarse. 

Tom, Mary thinks, has been a star in all of this. His wife is suffering and he feels so terribly helpless, she can see as much. But instead of curling up as she herself would want to do, he dresses and appears every morning at breakfast, and depending on Sybil's mood, either eats dinner downstairs with them or in the bedroom with his wife. The poor man looks like he's been raked over the coals, and yet he is attentive to Sybil, attentive to his daughter, and cordial to all of them. 

The biggest row yet had come when Tom had made mention of moving in with his brother to work in his garage. He intended to take his wife and child with him. 

"When she's like this?" Robert had argued. "Sybil isn't capable now of caring for herself, let alone a child. You'll need a nurse for her, a nurse for the baby... Tom, you cannot be serious."

She has tried so hard to be on Tom's side, in Sybil's absence, but she finds herself siding with Robert. 

"We've had a marvellous idea, actually," Mary tells Sybil, sitting down on the side of her bed. "We mentioned it to Tom at the christening, actually, and we think he'll take it on. Since Jarvis has resigned, we're in need of an estate agent. Someone with a practical mindset, who perhaps has a bit of experience with farming. Tom is the perfect fit. Matthew says he's sorry he didn't think of it himself."

Sybil turns her head, and Mary is unnerved by the dead expression in her eyes. "Tom doesn't want to stay here."

"I know this wasn't your plan in the beginning, Darling, but Tom knows that you and the baby need more care than he's able to provide right now. It's a good job, and it lets all three of you stay close. You know Mama and Papa will be over the moon to have you closer."

"Tom doesn't want to stay here," she repeats. "So I'm ruining everything, then."

Mary reaches for her hand and squeezes. Sybil doesn't squeeze back. "You're not ruining a thing. Tom is so terribly happy that you've pulled through, I'm sure you could move him into Buckingham Palace without a word of complaint. We've all been so impressed with him, you know. He dotes on the baby, is so attentive to you. He and Papa will never see eye to eye, but their love of you has brought them together. They're downright cordial, now."

Sybil doesn't comment, she only closes her eyes. "Tom would be better off without me."

"Darling, don't talk like that. Tom loves you."

"He would be able to move in with his brother if I had died. He could just hire a nanny for the baby and work in the garage. He could do what he wanted. Instead he's tied to a useless wife, tied to a place that he hates."

She sighs. "Cousin Isobel says she went through a dark period after Matthew was born, too. She felt sad without reason, and felt sad for feeling sad because she was supposed to be feeling happy. But she came out of it, and so will you. There is not a single person on this earth that is better off without you here. We have prayed until we had bruises on our knees for your survival, Sybil."

Sybil pulls her hand away from Mary's, gingerly turning to lay back down in bed, her back towards her.

"I've got a headache. Could you shut the door when you leave?"

* * *

"I feel so helpless," Tom confesses as he and Matthew stand in the nursery, watching the children squirm and coo in their beds. "We've always had a plan, Sybil and I. What to do next. Had some idea, at least. Now I can't do anything but wait. It's maddening."

"I know," Matthew sympathises. "It will take time, but she'll pull through this, Tom. I think Mother was right in saying that it isn't a surprise that this has happened. She's been through a trauma. And Sybil is so used to being independent and strong, the fact that she's still weak and bedridden has to be hard on her. But she's cared for and loved by you and everyone in this household. She has everything she needs to heal. It will just take time."

Tom nods. "It feels so impossible, you know? Sybil always had a way of making it all right in the end. I don't know what to do without her."

"Just take each day as it comes," Matthew responds. "You have a job and a home here. Your daughter and wife are cared for. Whatever mistakes you've made, you've ended up in the best possible place you could be for their sakes. I'd say you're doing very well for yourself and your family."

"Where's nanny?"

The men turn to find Mary stepping in the doorway, joining Matthew and Tom by the babies' beds. 

"She just stepped out for a moment," Tom tells her. "I said I would watch them."

"I thought I'd peek in on George, and found Tom," Matthew explains, taking a small step to the side so she can crowd in, as well. 

Mary reaches out to stroke George's cheek. "They'll be thick as thieves, you know. We'll never be able to keep them out of trouble."

That makes Tom smile, and she's glad for it. "Well, I shouldn't think that my Irish, Catholic daughter would be the picture of good English manners, after all."

"I shouldn't think any daughter of Sybil's would be the picture of proper behaviour, either," Mary teases. "A little rebel from the start. I should think we need her to shake things up a bit."

"Is it too early to recruit her to our side?" Matthew asks, smiling at Tom. "We'll need all the help we can get to persuade Robert."

Tom scoffs. "I'm worried about what I've gotten myself into."

"Oh, hush, Matthew. You'll scare him off and then you won't have any allies at all." Mary nudges him gently. "We are so glad you're here, Tom. I hope you know. Sybil has always wanted us to get on, and I told her once in a letter than we would know you and appreciate you, and we do. I'm rather sorry for the circumstances, of course, but things will improve."

"We can't stay here forever," Tom insists. "Even if I can't go back to Ireland. This isn't our home."

Matthew rests a hand on Mary's shoulder, hoping she takes the hint and doesn't protest. "No one is asking you to sign your life away, Tom. But you're a husband and a father, and that means putting your family first. Surely staying here for at least a few months while Sybil recovers isn't a sacrifice too great. And then, when things improve, you can start making plans again."

Tom looks uncomfortable with the idea of an extended stay, but nods. "I should go check on Sybil. She wouldn't talk this morning."

Mary waits until the door has closed behind him before turning to Matthew. "I wish we could do something. Between Sybil like this, Bates in prison..."

"It seems as though tragedy is a permanent resident here," he finishes, wrapping his arm around her waist. "When Sybil was talking to you about the baby being a Catholic, did you get the sense that she...knew? That this was to come?"

Mary swallows thickly. "I'm not sure. Not at the time. Of course, I've asked myself since. I would ask her, but she seems uninterested in everything around her. It's as though she stared death in the face and left a part of herself there when she came back to us."

"After four years of war, you'd think we'd be used to the young facing death." 

Her eyes stray to George, cooing in his bed, fighting to stay awake despite his heavy eyes. She lets her hand stray to Matthew's chest, settling against his side. "That's why we must never take anything for granted." 

"Which is what I'm trying to get Robert to see. He wasn't given Downton by God's decree. We have to work if we want to keep it." He rests his hand over hers, squeezing it gently. 

"But not only Downton," she says quickly. Us. We must never take us for granted." She thinks to all of the times they almost fell apart, all of the times they could have lost one another. Had she never confessed her affair with Pamuk, had he died when he and William had gone missing on patrol, had he died instead of injuring his spine, if he had succeeded in chasing her away when he thought he couldn't walk, if it had died having George...

"Well, I have to take one thing for granted," he vows. "That I will love you until the last breath leaves my body."

"Oh, my darling. Me too." 

* * *

As though an answer to their prayers, some of the misery slowly begins to ease from their lives. After hearing back from the paper she's written to, she starts making more frequent trips to London when the publisher begins to pursue her, making her an employment offer. 

While such a thing doesn't do much to please Robert, it lifts Edith's spirits, making her more bearable for Mary and giving the rest of them something light-hearted to discuss at the table.

Bates' release from prison, at last, does do something to brighten Robert's mood considerably. As does the annual cricket match and the desperate scramble to pull together enough players for the house team.

Even Granny becomes distracted when her niece's daughter, Rose, is sent for a visit. 

Therefore, with the most problematic of the household taken care of, Tom and Matthew have been making great leaps in their efforts to refocus the estate. 

Matthew is quick to praise Tom, partly because he's eager for the poor man to feel like he has allies in the house, but mostly because Tom is the same practical thinker as Matthew. 

Sybil improves slowly as the months pass, though it's the slow pace that puts them all on-edge. She seems brighter one day and then inconsolable for several, and the unsteady improvements make everyone hesitant to acknowledge any progress that may exist. 

Though she still doesn't dress or join them downstairs, Mary and Edith help bully her into the bath to wash, and then brush and braid her hair for her before she sleeps. Perhaps it's a rather shallow thing to care about at present, but as they are unable to care for Sybil's broken spirit, they're determined to show their affection in other ways. 

The baby, which Tom had mysteriously taken to calling 'Sybbie' after the middle name she shared with her mother, is growing quickly, and her squealing and giggling in comparison to George's solemn looks has all of their spirits brightened when the children are brought into the library for a visit. 

It's not a joyful house, necessarily, but it's far better than it has been. 

Tom has been looking into the agent's house, as well. Robert has protested firmly, and Cora often makes small comments here and there, but with Sybil making no strong indications of being back to her usual self, Tom seems eager to make some step forward himself, as though to prove to himself that they all can recover. 

When Matthew goes to London for some meeting with Murray and Edith takes the same train for some errand for the paper, Rose joins them. Tom makes some excuse involving business to busy himself on the other side of the estate, and so Mary is left alone with her parents. 

Papa talks of little else but the cricket match, but Cora eventually turns to her and inquires about George. 

"He's alright, I suppose," she says, a bit surprised at the question. "I feel rather guilty for saying it, but with everything that's been going on, I haven't really focused on him as I should."

"Between caring for Sybil and playing peacekeeper between Tom and Matthew and your father, I don't think anyone can blame you," she says with a smile, ignoring Robert's grunt of protest. 

"It sounds rather silly, that I'm surprised life didn't just stop when I had George. Matthew and I wanted him for so long, I somehow forgot that life's worries don't end when you have children."

"In many ways, they just begin," Cora replies sympathetically. "Though I'm sure that's not a terribly comforting thing to say."

"Not really," Mary smiles. "I wish I have the patience of Matthew. He can sit with George and play 'peekaboo' for an hour, and five minutes of it makes me want to tear my hair out. I'm not good at this mothering thing." 

"Nonsense," Cora dismisses. "Your Granny Violet always said she felt far more at ease when the children were old enough to have some independence, to be able to talk and play games. There isn't anything wrong with that."

She feels a weight lift from her shoulders. With Cora's attention divided between her youngest daughter and soothing her husband's bruised ego, Mary has been rather desperate for her motherly advice. 

"Enjoy your time with him now and appreciate this age, but there's nothing wrong with enjoying some ages more than others. Believe me, adolescent children were not my favourite time."

"Don't say that," Robert pipes in at last. "When George is that age, he can play cricket for the house team."

* * *

"So what is this terrible secret? You must tell me."

Matthew sheds his dressing gown and presses his lips together. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

"You can't lie to me, Matthew Crawley. You all were so awkward at dinner. What happened in London? If _Edith_ knows, I deserve to know."

He sighs, sliding into bed beside her. "You can read me so easily, can't you? Alright, but you mustn't repeat it to anyone."

"I swear on my life. Now, spill."

"Rose was out during the day and didn't come back for dinner. The driver of the cab she hired returned the scarf she had left and pointed us to where he had taken her. Turns out, she spent two hours at the home of a married man before the two of them went out dancing at a nightclub."

"A married man?" she cries, voice dropping when he shushes her. "Did you find her?"

"We did. My God, you should have seen this place. It was like walking into an outer circle of Dante's _Inferno_."

She can't help but smile. "You sound quite scandalised, Matthew."

"I felt so terribly old, there, and out of place. This is how Robert must feel all the time at the changes the post-war world have brought."

"So I suppose you didn't partake in the drinking and dancing?"

He scoffs. "I dragged Rose out onto the dance floor so I could talk to her alone without her older man there to hear. We were the only two not hanging off one another or in a drunken haze. We left immediately afterwards."

She smiles again. "Her mother will lose her head."

"I made her a deal. I would convince Edith and Rosamund not to speak a word of it if she left her man and agreed never to see him again. I made it clear that one behavioural slip and her mother would get the full story."

"Did you indeed? Aunt Rosamund won't be pleased about having to bite her tongue. Was Rose grateful for your help or did she accuse you of blackmail?"

He turns his head towards her, finally looking pleased. "She asked me why I was helping her. She said 'helping,' so I assume she isn't too angry with me."

"And what did you say?"

"I told her I was on the side of the downtrodden."

Mary grins as her own words are repeated back to her. How many times had she accused Matthew of being just that? She leans in to kiss him. "Always the hero, Darling. It was kind of you."

"I just hope that I'm not enabling her to continue to behave poorly by protecting her from consequences."

"She's eighteen, Darling. She'll get into trouble if she sees fit. But let's hope she learns her lesson about married men, at least. It's not as though Shrimpie can bribe him into marriage if she gets into trouble."

"Mm," he agrees. 

"What?"

He looks as though he isn't sure if he should say, but eventually speaks. "I suppose part of it was that I would hate to see her punished so severely for making a youthful mistake. She repeated all of these lines he had fed her, about his apparently horrid wife and claims that he intended to divorce her and marry Rose. She's so young and naive, I hated to think of her locked away like a prisoner for merely being the prey of a man with bad intentions of seducing her."

"Like I was a young and naive woman seduced by Pamuk, you mean?"

Matthew gives her a guilty look as though he'd been found out. "I saw you in her. I didn't want a youthful passion to affect her life any more than I want yours to affect you. Don't be angry with me."

"Of course I'm not," she assures. "I think it's terribly noble of you, you know. And for all you claim to feel out-of-place and old-fashioned, you can be quite modern-thinking."

"Perhaps Sybil and Tom's radical mindsets are rubbing off on me."

"Don't let Papa hear you say that," she warns, resting her head on his chest and pulling the bedsheets over them. "I do hope George takes after you. I'd be so very pleased."

Matthew strokes up and down the arm that is draped across his body. "I find myself hoping he'll take after you. You barely bat an eye in the most difficult of circumstances, and just a discussion about the estate makes me want to leap up and shake Robert by the shoulders. He would do well to be able to keep his head."

"It's my fear that he'll be too much like me. I don't want him to be cold. The only one who has ever found any softness in me is you. Without you it would dry up and drain away. I don't want that for George."

He lifts his head, brow furrowed. "My darling, I know you to be anything but cold. Perhaps George will take from us equally and have my excitable nature cooled. An equal balance of us both."

"If only it worked that way," she smiles, letting herself be pulled into a kiss. "I don't think I much take after either of my parents, perhaps George will forgo us both in favour of something else entirely."

"Oh, he must to some extent. Think of it. George running wild and rebellious and Sybbie quiet and dutiful. The horrors of both sets of parents." 

"Perhaps she's doomed to it. with Tom and Sybil having such strong opinions, she may never have the chance to say her piece," Mary laughs. 

"I don't know, Tom is capable of being persuaded, I've seen. Your father has bullied him into playing for the house team. I've promised to teach him to play cricket tomorrow afternoon." 

"I must say, he's adapted far better than I ever expected him to. After what happened in Ireland...I thought he'd be biting at the bit to get away."

Matthew sighs. "I think the near-loss of Sybil has taken the wind from his sails. And without her support and moderation...he feels quite at a loss. He's at the mercy of this family, and that's an uncomfortable position for him to be in. But he sees the way we care for Sybil, care for his daughter...it's softened him."

"I'm sorry for the circumstances, but I cannot admit to being sad to see the change in him. I don't want to see him broken, but sharing fears for Sybil has put Tom and Papa on equal ground for once. They're downright cordial, now."

He squeezes her hand. "For all of the tragedy and turmoil the last few years have brought, I feel so terribly hopeful, is it wrong to say? I think we can recover the estate, we live here with the children we once thought we could never have, watch Sybil recover from this illness, live on good terms with her and Tom. It all feels within our grasp."

"I'm afraid we're putting the cart before the horse, but I want to be hopeful. I do."

"You'll see," Matthew vows. "Every opportunity for tragedy that has been placed before us has been resolved in some way or another. We'll adapt and adjust to the new world, we always do."

"Though perhaps not as quickly as Rose is adapting to the new world."

"God, no."

* * *

She grins at the sight of Tom amongst the crowd, dressed in his crisp white cricket uniform. 

"Don't start," he warns as he passes, and she holds up her hands in defence. 

"I wouldn't dream of it. But you do look sharp."

"I mean it, Mary."

The lawn is strewn with tents and wicker furniture, and as the male servants have been dragged into the game, tables with drinks and food have been set up in advance for those watching. Mary drifts inside and out, to watch the men play. 

Nanny brings the children out to enjoy the fresh air, and Mary finds her attention drawn to George. She isn't a instinctively nurturing woman, she knows, and Cora had assured her that to be hesitant around children so small was nothing out of the ordinary, but now, in the warm air and bright sunshine of the day, with her husband, father, and brother-in-law enjoying one another's company...her heart is swollen with happiness. 

Scooping George up and cradling in her arms, watching him grin and gurgle, she feels the tendrils of a connection, the closing of the gap that had existed between them since his birth. She has always loved him, but now, happy and at peace, she feels that self-professed coldness melt a little more at the sight of him. She settles onto the rug of the tent, knees bent upwards and George laying back against her legs, staring wide-eyed at her. Oh, he looks so much like Matthew already, the shock of blue eyes and wisp of blonde hair so very familiar to her. 

She's so absorbed in him that she doesn't register another presence until she feels the brush of someone settling against her side. 

Sybil sits beside her, gazing down at George in Mary's lap. She looks tired, but peaceful, dressed in matching white like the rest of them, her hair pinned beneath her hat. 

"How are you feeling?" Mary asks, leaning against the arm of her younger sister. 

"Tired. But like the sun has come out for the first time in ages and it's too nice to stay inside. Where's Nanny?"

"Gone to get some baby paraphernalia. Would you like to hold him?" It occurs to her, as Mary places her son in Sybil's lap, that her sister has not held George since he was a newborn. Months had passed. 

She rises to fetch little Sybbie before settling back down, swaying back and forth with the baby propped against her legs, rocking her gently. Sybil takes each of George's little fists with her fingers, waving his arms. She looks at Mary and laughs. It isn't as boisterous as she might once have done, but it's genuine, and Mary is glad for it. 

The first inning must have ended, for Matthew appears quite suddenly at her side, crouching down beside her, his arm on her shoulder. He and Sybil share a smile. 

"My goodness. I don't think I've ever seen them together where one of them is not screaming or sobbing."

Mary smiles. "They must be cricket fans. So do try, they'll weep if you lose."

"I'll try my very best. But should the worst happen, they can cry alongside Cousin Robert," Matthew grins, and Sybil laughs again. 

From the corner of her eye, Mary can see as Tom approaches, slowly, hands in his pockets, as though afraid that his presence will ruin the bubble of peace settled over them. But Sybil catches sight of him and purses her lips together, looking shy. 

"You look beautiful," he says simply as he kneels beside her, kissing her cheek and peering over her shoulder at the babies. "I'm so happy you're here."

"You're playing cricket," she states. "You're playing cricket with Papa."

"I was bullied into it," he teases lightly, hand resting on her shoulder. "Or rather bribed, for Robert to get on board with the estate plan. I don't know why I made such a fuss about it."

"You're very good to play," Sybil assures him, and Mary finds she has to look away. The simple conversation feels like an intimacy she shouldn't be privy to, with Tom looking so grateful he might burst.

"I was just speaking to your mother," he says after a moment, reaching down to stroke one of George's pudgy cheeks. "I asked her if she thought it would be okay if we were to live here when Sybbie's little, not to move out until she's older."

"Oh, Tom," Sybil chokes, turning to face him. "Do you mean that?"

"I do," he vows, voice a bit hoarse himself. "Your mother said she's sure it's what you would want."

"But is it what you want?"

"You're what I want," he replies quickly. "I can't say that living here will be easy, that I won't butt heads with your father, but I know you need them. Their support. And I've needed it, too, these last few months."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. 

"Don't be. You're here. I can be happy anywhere you are."

"Are you happy?"

Tom smiles, blinking back tears. "I am. I promise I am."

Mary keeps her gaze averted to let the couple compose themselves for a few moments. "Shall we switch?" she offers at last, and Matthew takes Sybbie and puts her into her Sybil's arms after Mary takes George. The children protest but settle quickly. Sybil is right, Mary thinks, even the children think so. It's too nice a day to be unhappy. 

She knows that this isn't the end of it, that Sybil may be too tired to get out of bed tomorrow, that she may slip back into a dark mood, but it's a ray of hope she hasn't expected to see. A sign that Sybil, however slowly, is healing. 

The men are dragged back into the second inning, leaving Mary and Sybil to huddle together, their children in their laps, the gloominess of the last few months temporarily forgotten. Mary will doubt her mothering in future, Sybil will feel despair again, but this is enough for now. 

When Tom catches the ball during the second inning, holds it above his head in victory, is pulled in for a hearty handshake by Robert, Mary can't remember a time when Sybil has looked so happy. 

* * *

They crawl into bed that night, Matthew already complaining about his sore muscles. 

"You're brown as a nut," Mary comments, stroking his cheek, tanned from the hours spent in the sun. 

"But the top of my head is cooked," he sighs, pulling the sheet over both of them and prodding tenderly at his burnt scalp. "Your poor Papa will sleep well tonight, all of that stress over a close match."

"And a victory, however small," she grins, leaning in to kiss him. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you. And after the way Tom played, I think he's replaced me as Robert's favourite son-in-law." 

They both smile at that. "Two victories in one day. It's a wonder we all don't faint with relief. It's been a wonderful day. I can't remember when I last enjoyed myself so much." 

"I'm glad," Matthew replies sincerely, settling down against the pillows and pulling Mary to his chest. "I really am glad. It seems as though we've been jumping from one heartbreak to the next. Sybil's improving, Tom and Robert are at least being civil, both children are healthy, we've made a strong step forward in saving the estate... Robert is in such bright spirits he's already talking about making Christmas plans to visit Duneagle. I feel like I'm flying."

"I think we're getting through the thick of it," Mary says, surprised by her own uncharacteristic optimism. "With you, with Sybil, with Mama being sick...there were so many chances for death and we've come through it. Again and again we've narrowly avoided tragedy." 

Matthew hums in response. "I know that I said that I was angry at myself for refusing you before the war, that we could have been married before I enlisted and already had several children by now...but I've changed my mind. I wouldn't change a thing. For all the heartbreak, I wouldn't change a thing."

"The only thing that saddens me is that we missed a year together," Mary replies, reaching a hand up to stroke through his hair. "I want as much time as possible with you."

"But we could have missed so many more. Who knows how differently things might have gone? Refusing you before the war led you to confess to me about Pamuk, and we started our relationship on an honest foot. We weren't married when I was first injured and couldn't walk, when the fraud claiming to be Patrick showed up, and your continued dedication to me erased all doubts I could have had about your motivations in marrying me. All of the heartache we've endured has only made me love you more, has made me more content in our happiness." 

Mary can't help but smile. She wants him to wrap his arms around her and stay there forever, to feel this satisfaction and victory and joy. It's not the blinding happiness she felt after George's birth, but it's better. It's a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach that despite the tragedies of late, things will be alright. It's hope. 

"You know, when I was struggling to decide how to answer your first proposal, Granny told you that I should accept. She said that if I accepted you when you were not the heir, that you would love me forever. When things broke off between us, I could only think that I had barely had your love at all, let alone forever. I thought I would never have it again." 

"How could I not love you?" he asks. 

"Sometimes I feel as though you're the only one who does."

"You were Sybil's champion when no one else was, and Tom's, you have always treated my mother well, you have given your father an heir and played peacekeeper on so many occasions. Perhaps you're not as soft and nurturing as you think you should be, but my darling, we'd all have fallen apart without you."

Mary manages to smile. "Are my concerns about being to cold and unfeeling so obvious?"

"Sometimes we need a storm-braver to prevent things from ruin instead of someone to comfort us after everything's fallen apart," Matthew tells her. "You're exactly as warm and feeling as you need to be. You held my hand and let me wallow during my injury and demanded that I move on when it was time. You let Robert sulk about Sybil and then forced them to swallow their pride and mend fences. You should be a politician for the way you can puppeteer us all."

"You always make me sound far grander than I am."

Matthew takes her hand and squeezes it, then kisses each fingertip. "On the contrary, my darling. You were Perseus all along, saving me from sea monsters."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sybil's condition is based on research I've done into postpartum depression and the lingering affects of preeclampsia after childbirth such as hypertension, which can include headaches, fatigue, and breathing difficulties.


End file.
